Citation
Women on the Edge of Time: Grief and Power in the Nuclear Age

Material Information

Title:
Women on the Edge of Time: Grief and Power in the Nuclear Age
Creator:
Nichols, Amanda M
Publisher:
University of Florida
Publication Date:
Language:
English

Thesis/Dissertation Information

Degree:
Doctorate ( Ph.D.)
Degree Grantor:
University of Florida
Degree Disciplines:
Religion
Committee Chair:
Taylor,Bron R
Committee Co-Chair:
Hackett,David Gray
Committee Members:
Gordan,Rachel
Davis,Jack Emerson
Anantharam,Anita
Graduation Date:
4/30/2021

Subjects

Subjects / Keywords:
nuclear

Notes

General Note:
Herein, I have provided an intersectional ethnographic environmental history of the North American anti-nuclear movement which addresses the roles of six leading women in the fight against nuclear technologies. Speaking to an interdisciplinary audience from environmental history, religious studies, and gender studies, I shed light on the gendered dynamics that inform political and social movements and illuminate connections between gender, religious and spiritual beliefs, and environmental engagement and activism. My aim has been to contribute to the growing corpus of literature in religious studies and intersectional environmentalism that critically examines and engages with the role and contributions of women. Through the collection and presentation of ethnographic and archival data, I have shown the powerful and lasting legacy of six women who were not only forerunners to environmental activism, but who have raced against the clock of anthropogenic climate change to fight against the continued use of nuclear technologies.

Record Information

Source Institution:
UFRGP
Rights Management:
All applicable rights reserved by the source institution and holding location.
Embargo Date:
5/31/2023

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WOMEN ON THE EDGE OF TIME: GRIEF AND POWER IN THE NUCLEAR AGE By AMANDA M. NICHOLS A DISSERTATION PRESENTED TO THE GRADUATE SCHOOL OF THE UNIVERSITY OF FLORIDA IN PARTIAL FULFILLMENT OF THE REQUIREMENTS FOR THE DEGREE OF DOCTOR OF PHILOSOPHY UNIVERSITY OF FLORIDA 2021

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2021 Amanda M. Nichols

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To My Mother : Who has always supported me unconditionally and is the strongest woman that I know. And t o Helen, Mary, Wendy, Joanna, Linda, and Karen: Thank you for empowering me , for giving me a voice, and for sharing your time with me. Your efforts have made a signif icant contribution to protecting current and future beings from the devastating effects of nuclear technologies. May this be a testament to your courage, strength, and power in the face of insourmountable challenges. We are all endebted to you.

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4 ACKNOWLEDGMENTS Foremost, I would like to express my sincere gratitutude to my advisor, Dr. Bron Taylor. Since I began my Ph.D., he has been an advocate and ally and empowered me to expand my own skills and enhance my knowledge of the field. He has also offered guidance and opportuinutes at every turn and encouraged me to become a more disciplined and critical scholar. His invaluable guidance, dedication, timely advice, and meticulious scrutiny have made this project possible. I would also like to thank Dr. Anita Ananantharam for her continuous support, guidance, and encouragement throughout the disse rtation process. From the earliest draft of the proposal, her detailed and constructive feedback , engagement, and interest in the project has been a source of continued motivation. My other committee members, Dr. David Hackett, Dr. Rachel Gor don, and Dr. J ack Davis, also pointed me toward helpful scholarly resources, offered constructive feedback and contributed their own valuable insights, and for this I am also grateful. I would never have made it to this point without the constant love and support of my family. My parents who always provided for me and enabled me to pursue my dreams , are deserving of much of the credit for my success. My mother especially has always been a source of sound advice and support and has shown me unconditional love and guidanc e as I have pursued my education and completed the dissertation. There are no words that can fully express the extent of my gratitude to her. My sister Melissa and her husband Roger have also been a continuous source of support and remind me of the important things in life , which I am very grateful for. I am also thankful for the love and support of my sister Rhonda and her three children, Dakota, Dalton, and Delaney, my brother, Ron, and his partner Kathy, and Brian and his mother Elizabeth.

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5 I am also deeply grateful for and indebted to Dr. Ben jamin Kirby, who, since we met in 2019, has unconditionally supported, cared for, and encouraged me, and has always offered his comfort, humor, sound advice , and wisdom when I needed them most. There are also several friends and colleagues that I am endebted to for their willingness to mentor me, be in dialogue, and offer their own expertise and insight as I worked through my project. Dr. Lucas Johnston, who I first met and had the opportunity to work with when I was an undergraduate at Wake Forest University, has continued to serve as a mentor for me throughout my Ph.D. program, and has often offered timely and sound personal and professional advice, for which I am deeply grateful. I have also had the opportunity and pleasure of working with Dr. Evan Berry, Dr. Mark Peterson, Dr. Lisa Sideris, Dr. Joe Witt, and Dr. Whitney Bauman in various capacities through the International Society for the Study of Religion, Nature and Culture and the Journal for the Study of Religion, Nature and Culture. Each has provided important guidance , professional advice , and insight about this project at critical moments , for which I am deeply grateful. M any friends , who have been there to support, encourage, and dialogue with me t hroughout my academic career, and without whom I would not have made it to this point , are also deserving of thanks . To Andrew Meland and Matthew Cerami who opened my world to new perspectives and pushed me to become more perceptive, austute, and critical during our late night philosophical discussions at Ragtag, and who have continued to be in dialogue with me since our MA program, I am deeply grateful to both of you. I would never have made it through my MA program without the support and wisdom of Dr. Kr isten Kalz, who I was fortunate enough to live with for two years. Her humor, sarcasm, and passion are infectious , and she has remained a loyal and devoted friend. A number of individuals from my cohort and other

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6 colleagues at University of Florida have become both dear friends and valuable interlocutors since I began my Ph.D ., and I am deeply grateful to them for offering their insights, both inside and outside the classroom. The friendship and advice of Dustin Shane, Dr. Victoria Machado, Josh McKi nley , Dr. Benedikt Pontzen, Aya Cockram, Gareth Newnham, and Dr. Cagdas and Cansu Dedeoglu has kept me grounded, contributed to my mental health, and greatly enriched my life, and to them I am ver y grateful. There are also three dear friends who I owe a deep debt of gratitude for being by my side through some of the most challenging days of my life, and for loving me unconditionally. To Brandy Stone, Ben McKaig, and Katie Guerra, I am so very thankfull that each of you are part of my life and I am forever g rateful for your love and support. I also owe a deep debt of gratitude to the six women whose stories fill these pages. Each of them dedicated numerous hours to talking with me, sharing their stories, and reviewing the histories that I present herein. They have been open and honest, sharing intimate detailes of their lives so that I might write a more complete history. Together, we delved into some of the most powerful and emotional moments that they experienced. I thank them for allowing me this opportunit y to tell their stories, which has thereby given me a voice of my own. I am grateful for the ways that their insights have shaped this research and the rich and thick descriptions that they have provided. Foremost, I am grateful for their contributions and for their ongoing commitments to a nuclear free future for us all.

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7 TABLE OF CONTENTS page ACKNOWLEDGMENTS ...............................................................................................................4 LIST OF FIGURES .......................................................................................................................10 LIST OF ABBREVIATIONS ........................................................................................................11 ABSTRACT ...................................................................................................................................15 CHAPTER 1 PREFACE ...............................................................................................................................16 2 INTRODUCTION ..................................................................................................................21 3 “WHERE ARE ALL THE WOMEN?”: A REVIEW OF LITERATURE AT THE INTERSECTIONS OF ENVIRONMENTAL HISTORY AND RELIGIOUS STUDIES ....29 A Critical Frame of Analysis ..................................................................................................30 Literature Review ...................................................................................................................37 Approaches in the Study of Religion ...............................................................................37 Approaches in Environmental History ............................................................................41 The Intersections of Religion and Environmental History ..............................................47 Conclusion ..............................................................................................................................52 4 A BRIEF HISTORY OF THE NORTH AMERICAN ANTI NUCLEAR MOVEMENT ....53 The Rise of the Nuclear Age ..................................................................................................53 Historical Accounts of Gender, Race, and Class in the Anti Nuclear Movement – A Literature Review ................................................................................................................58 The North American Anti Nuclear Movement A History ...................................................69 Nuclear Weapons .............................................................................................................70 Nuclear War .....................................................................................................................83 Nuclear Energy ................................................................................................................91 Conclusion ..............................................................................................................................98 5 HENNY PENNY – THE SK Y IS FALLING!: ON DR. HELEN CALDICOTT AND NUCLEAR WAR .................................................................................................................100 Caldicott’s Early Life “A Woman’s Place is in the Home” ...............................................105 “If You Wear Pearls, You Can Say Anything” .............................................................109 “Trust Your Intuition” ...................................................................................................112 “You’ll Make a Good Wife Someday” .................................................................................114 “Be Seen Not Heard” ............................................................................................................119 “Don’t Be So Dramatic!” ......................................................................................................124

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8 “Don’t Let Them See You Cry” ...........................................................................................130 “Boys Will Be Boys” ............................................................................................................137 “Believe in Yourself, or No One Else Will” .........................................................................140 6 “GOODNIGHT, MR. DINGELL”: ON MARY OLSON AND NUCLEAR WASTE ........147 Olson’s Early Life – Gendered Norms in the Household .....................................................148 “Don’t Worry Your Pretty Little Head” – About Radiation .................................................151 “Don’t Be So Bossy!” Of “Tigers on Leashes” .................................................................155 “That’s Not Very Ladylike!” – On Gender and Presenta tion ...............................................169 “Get a GRIP!” – On Gender Radiation Impact Project ........................................................172 “Let Me Help You with That” – Understanding (In)Visibilities ..........................................182 7 TRIAL BY “THE POISON FIRE”: ON JOANNA MACY, WENDY OSER, AND NUCLEAR GUARDIANSHIP ............................................................................................190 Macy’s Early Life: Reflections on the Religious Roots of Environmentalism ....................194 The Turning of the Wheel .....................................................................................................197 “Positiv e Disintegration” ......................................................................................................200 Oser’s Early Life – Energetic Roots of Environmental Action ............................................205 Disintegration – The Effects of Nuclear Technologies ........................................................210 “Trial by the ‘Poison Fire’” The Effects of Nuclear Radiation Exposure ..........................213 A Vision at Greenham Common ..........................................................................................216 The Fire Group ..............................................................................................................217 Toward the ‘Responsible Care of Radioactive Materials’: The Nuclear Guardianship Project ..................................................................................................223 The Legacy of Nuclear Guardianship ............................................................................227 For the Future Beings The Integrative Power of Women’s AntiNuclear Work ...............230 8 “REARRANGING CHAIRS ON THE TITANIC”: ON LINDA SEELEY AND NUCLEAR POWER ............................................................................................................233 Seeley’s Early Life – Searching for Transcendence .............................................................234 Political Radicalization .........................................................................................................237 Dis ease and Patchwork Memories ......................................................................................239 A Radical Midwife ...............................................................................................................246 Mothers for Peace .................................................................................................................250 Diablo Canyon – A Brief History ..................................................................................251 The Passion of Mothers .................................................................................................253 Oaks and Acorns – Non Violent Direct Action at Diablo Canyon ...............................262 Spokesperson for Mothers, Spokesperson for Peace ............................................................265 From Love, Ecological Salvation .........................................................................................271 9 A CHOICE BETWEEN TWO DIVERGE NT FUTURES: ON KAREN COULTER AND NUCLEAR WEAPONS .............................................................................................277 Coulter’s Early Life: A Stirring Inside .................................................................................278 “Not in MY hills you don’t!” – The Fight Against the MX .................................................285

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9 A Green Light for Activism ..................................................................................................292 Stoppi ng the “White Death Trains” ......................................................................................295 Weapons and Warships .........................................................................................................303 A Growing Sense of Dis ease ...............................................................................................306 Anarchists and Earth First! – A “No Fault Divorce” ...........................................................313 Blue Mountains Biodiversity Project ....................................................................................316 “Fighting the Good Fight” ....................................................................................................319 “Visualize Industrial Collapse” or Live in Connection: A Choice Between Two Divergent Futures ..............................................................................................................323 10 CONCLUSION: WOMEN ON THE EDGE OF TIME .......................................................327 LIST OF REFERENCES .............................................................................................................334 BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH .......................................................................................................380

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10 LIST OF FIGURES Figure page 51 A Portrait of Dr. Helen Caldicott. ....................................................................................100 61 A Portrait of Mary Olson at work in 2012. ......................................................................147 62 “Total U.S. Nuclear Waste – Military and Civilian.” .....................................................160 71 A Portrait of Dr. Joanna Macy .........................................................................................190 72 A Portrait of Wendy Oser ................................................................................................191 73 “The Standard Remembering.” ........................................................................................221 81 A Port rait of Linda Seeley representing Mothers for Peace’s work in opposition to all war. ...................................................................................................................................233 91 A Portrait of Karen Coulter. .............................................................................................277 101 “Reactors Operating in the United States”: A map showing the location of every operational nuclear reactor in the United States as of February 2021. ............................328 102 “National Nuclear Power Program Startup and Phase out.” ...........................................329

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11 L IST OF ABBREVIATIONS AAUP ABC ABM ACS AEC AFSC ASLB BDF! BMBP BNPD BPF BRC CALC CEQ CF CFAG CFCs CIA CIS CND CNI COAB CPT American Association of University Professors American Broadcasting Company Anti ballistic Missiles American Cancer Society Atomic Energy Commission American Friends Service Committee Atomic Safety and Licensing Board Biodiversity First! Blue Mountain Biodiversity Project Bruce Nuclear Power Development Buddhi st Peace Foundation Below Regulatory Concern Clergy and Laity Concerned Council on Environmental Quality Cystic Fibrosis Cathedral Forest Action Group Chloroflourocarbons Central Intelligence Agency Consolidate Interim Storage Campaign for Nuclear Disarmament Committee for Nuclear Information Council of All Beings Christian Peacemaker Teams

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12 DMAW DOE EF! EIS EPA EPACT ETVs FAS FBI FOB GRACE GRIP HANDS IAEA ICAN ICBM IFOR INES INF IPPNW ISTSS JCPOA KBP7 KKK LAG Don’t Make A Wave Department of Energy Earth First ! Environmental Impact Statement Environmental Protection Agency Energy Policy Act Earth Treasure Vases Federat ion of American Scientists Federal Bureau of Investigation Forelaws on Board Global Resource Action Center for the Environment Gender Radiation Impact Project Humans Against Nuclear Waste Dumping International Atomic Energy Agency International Campaign to Abolish Nuclear Weapons Intercontinental Ballistic Missile International Fellowship of Reconciliation International Nuclear and Radiological Event Scale Intermediate Range Nuclear Forces International Physicians for the Prevention of Nuclear War International Society for Traumatic Stress Studies Joint Comprehensive Plan of Action Kings Bay Plowshares Ku Klux Klan Livermore Action Group

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13 LGBTQ MAD MAUM MIRV MRS NATO NDE NEW NFQT NGF NGP NIMBY NIRS NNSA NPR NPT NPRI NRC NWAD NWPA OSPRIG PCBs PG&E PJRC POCLAD Lesbian, Gay, Bisexual, Transgender, Queer Mutually Assured Destruction Movement Against Uranium Mining Multiple Independently Targetable Reentry Vehicle Monitored Retrievable Storage North Atlantic Treaty Organization Nevada Desert Experiences Nuclear Energy Women Nuclear Field Qualification Test Nuclear Guardianship Forum Nuclear Guardianship Project Not In My Backyard Nuclear Information and Resource Services National Nuclear Security Administration National Public Radio Non Proliferation of Nuclear Weapons Treaty Nuclear Policy Research Institute Nuclear Regulatory Commission Northwest Action for Disarmament Nuclear Waste Policy Act Oregon State Public Interest Research Group Polychlorinated Biphenyls Pacific Gas and Electric Company The Peace and Justice Resource Center Program on Corporations, Law & Democracy

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14 PSR PsySR PTBT PTSD RCW ROTC RRR SALT SANE SDS SON STAR START TPNW UN UNA US USSR VEPCO VOW WAND WILPF WPA WSP XR Physicians for Social Responsibility Psychologist s for Social Responsibility Partial Test Ban Treaty Post traumatic Stress Disorder Reaching Critical Will Reserve Officer Training Corps Round River Rendezvous Strategic Arms Limitation Talks The Committee for a Sane Nuclear Policy Students for a Democrati c Society Saugeen Ojibway Nation Standing for Truth About Radiation Strategic Arms Reduction Treaty Treaty on the Prohibition of Nuclear Weapons United Nations United Nations Association United States of America Union of Soviet Socialist Republics Virginia Electric Power Company Voice of Women for Peace Women’s Action for New Directions Women’s International League for Peace and Freedom Women’s Pentagon Action Women Strike for Peace Extinction Rebellion

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15 Abstract of Dissertation Presented to the Graduate School of the University of Florida in Partial Fulfillment of the Requirements for the Degree of Doctor of Philosophy WOMEN ON THE EDGE OF TIME: GRIEF AND POWER IN THE NUCLEAR AGE By Amanda M. Nichols May 2021 Chair: Bron Taylor Major: Religion Herein, I have provided an intersectional ethnographic environmental history of the North American antinuclear movement which address es the roles of six leading women in the fight against nuclear technologies . Speaking to an interdisciplinary audience from environmental history , religious studies, and gender studies, I shed light on the gendered dynamics that inform political and social movements and illuminate connections between gender, religious and spiritual beliefs, and environmental engagement and ac tivism. My aim has been to contribute to the growing corpus of literature in religious studies and intersectional environmentalism that critically examines and engages with the role and contributions of women. Through the collection and presentation of ethnographic and archival data, I have shown the powerful and lasting legacy of six women who were not only forerunners to environmental activism, but who have raced against the clock of anthropogenic climate change to fight against the continued use of nucle ar technologies.

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16 CHAPTER 1 PREFACE They called her insane, but she knew that only her sacrifice could save the future – Marge Piercy Woman on the Edge of Time These words, written on the cover of Marge Piercy’s 1997 novel, Woman on the Edge of Time , resonated with me when I first read them during my master’s program in 2014. Piercy told the story of Consuela (Connie) Ramos, a Mexican American woman living in New York. After suffering severe trauma in her life, including an abortion, the death of her beloved husband, and an abusive partner, Connie was unfairly committed to an insane asylum after attacking her niece’s pimp. While there, Connie was subjected to an e xperimental treatment when doctors placed an implant in her brain. She proceeded to have “visions” of two divergent futures: one of a utopic society of social equality and environmental consciousness, the other of a dystopian society degraded by capitalism , commodity fetishism, and environmental exploitation. Connie was a “woman on the edge of time,” faced with decisions that would impact which future would be hers. Several years ago, I leant out my copy of the book. I was already deeply engaged with ethnographic interviews for the current research when, to my surprise, the book made its way back to me. Walking out of the office with the book in my hand, I got an email notification from Mary Olson, with whom I had just completed an interview. I opened it a nd found the words of the poem “To Be of Use” therein: The work of the world is common as mud. Botched, it smears the hands, crumbles to dust. But the thing worth doing well done has a shape that satisfies, clean and evident. Greek amphoras for wine or oil, Hopi vases that held corn, are put in museums but you know they were made to be used.

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17 The pitcher cries for water to carry and a person for work that is real. I read those words thinking how fitting they were after the conversation we had just share d. Olson explained in her email that the poem had been influential for her when she met the author as a teenager, and that when I asked her to reflect on her own contributions, she felt a sentimental emotion that made her remember these words. I looked at the author’s name – Marge Piercy and thought to myself “I know that namewho is that?” And there, in my hand was Piercy’s book Woman on the Edge of Time. It was serendipitous. With the realization that this title was incredibly apt, both for me and for t he subjects of my research, I was overwhelmed with emotion. The title, tagline, and the final lines of the poem resonated with me, clearly speaking to the lived experience of my research subjects. This dissertation is foremost about six women – Helen Cald icott, Mary Olson, Joanna Macy, Wendy Oser, Linda Seeley, and Karen Coulter – and the work that each of them have done in their lives toward a common goal. Much like Piercy’s central character, these women have been caught on the edge of a global debate over two divergent futures: one characterized by the continued threat posed by nuclear weapons and waste to the health and persistence of life as we know it; the other a world where the production and use of nuclear weapons is banned, nuclear power is obsole te, and nuclear waste is mindfully (and to the extent possible, safely) stored. As activists, educators, and leaders, in diverse ways, they have helped shape the history of the anti nuclear movement in North America. But as women their stories and their co ntributions have often been left out of the (his)tories 1 of that movement, forgotten, minimized, 1 Etymologically speaking, the word history is derived from the Latin translation of the Greek word histoia , meaning finding out, narrative, or history. However, historia is derived from the Greek word meaning learned or wise man and is therefore, inherently gendered. In 1970, Robin Morgan first used the term ‘herstory’, which second wave

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18 or ignored. Moreover, their own lived experiences have been duly informed by the patriarchal assumptions and politics of their time. Many of them have been ca lled “insane,” “crazy ,” and “emotional , ” among other things, and all of them have made personal sacrifices in the fight for the common goal of a nuclear free future. To various degrees, their personal and professional lives have been impacted, at least in part, due to their gender. But despite the challenges they have faced, they all persisted and made dramatic and lasting contributions to global debates about nuclear technologies. My research is not only about these remarkable women, it is about power – nuclear power specifically, but also about the various ways we conceive of power and power relationships in society between people as well as between human and non human organisms. Developed predominantly since 2017, my research reflects, in part, the curr ent political climate in the United States. During the presidency of Donald Trump, power has been a central trope of mainstream media discourse, from the empowered Women’s March in 2017, to the power of the Black Lives Matter movement in 2020, and the gnaw ing question of whether humans have the power to prevent, or even to slow, catastrophic anthropogenic climate change. Efforts to dismantle dominant anthropocentric, androcentric, and heteronormative worldviews have intensified. Through my research I have s ought to understand the ways that power is being re envisioned, re negotiated, and re historied. But my research is also about grief the burdensome and often overwhelming weight of grief brought on by the now daily reminders of systematic discrimination, marginalization, injustice, and silencing of certain voices and individuals, both human and nonhuman. It is a reflection of grief felt for our planet and its feminist s later co opted to use to show the pervasiveness of the male domination within the intellectual enterprise of history (Morgan 1970).

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19 denizens. More than that, however, I have sought through my research to provide insights into th e ways that power can emerge from grief: the productive, regenerative, embodied, and inspiring power of those who protest and those who persevere. As a woman and as a scholar, my identity has been shaped by the study of critical feminist and race theory frames of analysis. When I began this research, I approached the topic as I do every other: with a critical eye trained to discern discriminations and absences, especially those based on gender and ethnicity. I had a strong ideological suspicion based on my previous studies of American environmental history that much has been left out of the history of the environmental movement in general, and of the anti nuclear movement in particular. This research, in part, has been an exploration in the ways that women, other underrepresented individuals, and marginalized communities have been portrayed in the extant histories of the anti nuclear movement. I have sought to illuminate gaps in the historical narratives through both a detailed literature review and firstha nd accounts of some of the women involved in the movement. As a scholar who focuses a great deal of attention on the entanglement of religion and nature, I am particularly interested in the role of religious individuals and groups in the movement, and in the interplay between religious and spiritual beliefs and en vironmental activism and practice. I am also intimately concerned with the question of whether, and if so to what extent, the beliefs (either religious, spiritual, or secular) of the women I have interviewed have shaped or informed their environmental pers pectives and especially their anti nuclear proclivities. Their stories are unique and provide us with valuable insight to a history of the North American antinuclear movement that takes the role that women have played seriously.

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20 They are “Women on the Edge of Time” and I am deeply honored that they have allowed and empowered me to share their stories.

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21 CHAPTER 2 INTRODUCTION Through ethnographic and archival research, I have written an intersectional ethnographic environmental history1 of the North Americ an anti nuclear movement. I have sought to bring to light the roles and insights of some of the leading women in the fight against nuclear technologies, while speaking to an interdisciplinary audience, including scholars from environmental history, interse ctional environmentalism, religion, and gender studies. Herein, I illuminate not only on the gendered dynamics faced by the women I have focused on but to also illuminate connections between gender, religious and spiritual beliefs, and environmental practi ces. Moreover, I aim to contribute to the growing corpus of literature in religious studies and intersectional environmentalism that critically examines and engages with the role and contributions of women, other underrepresented individuals, and marginali zed communities This project began in 2017 as an exploration of the role of women in the North American environmental movement. It became apparent to me soon thereafter that the scope of the project was too broad to do justice to the stories of the numerou s women who have contributed to the growth and success of environmentalism in the United States. I chose to narrow the scope and focus to an exploration of the role of women in the North American antinuclear movement. In part, this decision was based on m y own interest in the debate around nuclear power and nuclear weapons, and previous limited ethnographic research I conducted with members of the Nuclear Guardianship Forum during my master’s program in 2013 and 2014. During my preliminary research, however, I also came to understand many of the women involved in the anti nuclear 1 By which I mean an environmental historical account which takes seriously the disproportionate impacts of environmental injustices on vulnerable inidividuals and communities, both human and non human, and seeks to advocate for equitable protections extended to all biological life forms.

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22 movement as precursors to those involved in environmentalism generally. Consequently, I realized, that to better understand environmentalism I needed to fully explore the anti nucl ear movement. Another factor also informed my decision for the focus of the dissertation: the nuclear debate had become increasingly relevant for scholars and the global public since the election of United States President Donald Trump in 2016. This was b ecause, after his election, for the first time since the ebbing of the Cold War with the disintegration of the Soviet Union and the Fall of the Berlin wall, the possible use of nuclear weapons increased. In February 2018, e.g., Trump announced that the Uni ted States would withdraw from the Joint Comprehensive Plan of Action (JCPOA), more commonly known as the Iran Nuclear Deal. Negotiated under President Barack Obama in 2015, the United States and four other permanent members of the United Nations Security Council placed restrictions on Iran’s production of enriched uranium and its potential to create nuclear weapons, in return for economic relief for the nation (see “ The Joint Comprehensive Plan of Action at a Glance” n.d. ). Calling it a “horrible one sided deal that should have never, ever been made” Trump pulled out of the agreement, despite fervent opposition from other world leaders, and his own staff (Landler 2018). This was followed, later in 2018, by Trump announcing that the United States would also withdraw from the 1987 Intermediate Range Nuclear Forces Treaty (INF), a move which was completed effectively on 2 August 2019 (Bugos 2019). The INF, an agreement reached between the United States and the Soviet Union in 1987, eliminated the production and stockpiling of intermediate and short range missiles that could carry nuclear warheads. (See "The Intermediate Range Nuclear Forces Treaty at a Glance" n.d.) This treaty was monumental in that it “ marked the first time the superpowers had agreed to reduce their nuclear arsenals, eliminate

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23 an entire category of nuclear weapons, and employ extensive onsite inspections for verification” ( "The Intermediate Range Nuclear Forces Treaty at a Glance" n.d.). The withdrawal from these treaties meant that the only Nuclear Weapons Treaty still in place restricting the use of nuclear weapons between the United States and Russia was the 2010 New Strategic Arms Reduction Treaty (New START). The New START treaty limited the number of intercontinental ballistic missiles (ICBMs), nuclear warheads, and ICBM launchers (among other things) that each country could possess, and it is set to expire in February 2021 (see “New START Treaty” 2020). T he Trump administration made no attempt to exten d the treaty during his time in office, although it was set to expire on 5 February 2021 (Gordon 2020). On 26 January 2021, only days after taking office, United States President Joe Biden entered into negotiations with Russian President Vladimir Putin to extend the terms of the New START treaty for another five years. Both presidents agreed, and the treaty extension was completed before the 5 February 2021 deadline (Herszenhorn 2021). The Trump administration also considered restarting programs for testing nuclear weapons for the first time since 1992 (Hudson and Sonne 2020). President Trump was also outspoken about nuclear weapons on social media. On 2 January 2018 for instance, he mocked North Korean President Kim Jong Un on twitter and stated, “I too have a Nuclear Button, but it is much bigger and more powerful than his and my Button [sic.] works!” (Baker and Tackett 2020; Trump 2018). Even more outrageous, however, were the reports that during a private meeting with national and homeland security offici als, Trump suggested that the United States military should “nuke” or “bomb” hurricanes to stop them from hitting the United States (Swan and Talev 2019; Guardian Staff 2019; Cillizza 2019). Although Trump later denied saying this, Representative Sylvia Garcia introduced a bill on 1 June 2020 that “explicitly prohibits the

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24 president, along with any other federal agency or official, from employing a nuclear bomb or other ‘strategic weapon’ with the goal of ‘altering weather patterns or addressing climate cha nge’” (Stone 2020; see also Julien 2020). In January 2020 the Bulletin of the Atomic Scientists moved the Doomsday Clock, which they originally established in 1947 as a way to measure the risk of a nuclear conflagration, to 100 seconds to midnight, closer than they had ever placed their clock, and thus their risk assessment, previously. In their accompanying statement the scientists blamed two major and growing threats to humanity: nuclear war and anthropogenic climate change. Specifically, they wrote: In the nuclear realm, national leaders have ended or undermined several major arms control treaties and negotiations during the last year, creating an environment conducive to a renewed nuclear arms race, to the proliferation of nuclear weapons, and to l owered barriers to nuclear war. Political conflicts regarding nuclear programs in Iran and North Korea remain unresolved and are, if anything, worsening. US Russia cooperation on arms control and disarmament is all but nonexistent. Public awareness o f the climate crisis grew over the course of 2019, largely because of mass protests by young people around the world. Just the same, governmental action on climate change still falls far short of meeting the challenge at hand. At UN climate meetings last y ear, national delegates made fine speeches but put forward few concrete plans to further limit the carbon dioxide emissions that are disrupting Earth’s climate. This limited political response came during a year when the effects of manmade climate change w ere manifested by one of the warmest years on record, extensive wildfires, and quicker than expected melting of glacial ice . (“Closer Than Ever” 2020) The threat of nuclear weapons use, according to these scientists, is more present now than it has been a t any point since the end of the Cold War. The threat posed to human life and civilization, as they have shown, is monumental. But the catastrophic effects of nuclear weapons deployment felt around the globe, would be detrimental not only to humans but to all species, and it would exacerbate the already dire anthropogenic environmental climate crisis we are entangled within. As we move forward, propelled by the patriarchal politics of our modern culture toward continued overconsumption,

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25 resource depletion, and climate crisis, it is imperative that we re examine our histories and learn from the mistakes, as well as the successes, of previous generations. In the pages that follow, I provide a history of the anti nuclear movement, which takes seriously the c ontributions that women have made to its growth and success and examines the connections between their religious and spiritual beliefs, and their environmental values and work. There are four “parts” of this dissertation. The chapters that constitute Part One, give the “Background” for this research. In Chapter 3, I provide a detailed review of literature which illuminates the theoretical perspectives that have informed my own understanding of this project. In Chapter 4, I provide a brief history of the anti nuclear movement in the United States. As a religion sch olar, I am particularly interested in the role of religious individuals and groups in the movement, and in the interplay between religious and spiritual beliefs and environmental activism and practice. I am also interested in the way women are portrayed in these histories and whether any gaps arise between the ways they are portrayed and the stories they tell themselves in the pages that follow. The remaining five Chapter s contain the stories of women who have been important figures in the fight against n uclear technologies in the United States. The stories told in these pages were collected from a combination of detailed historical and archival research and in depth interviews. In quoting directly from my interviews with these women, from their own autobi ographical materials and scholarly writings, and from archival sources, I aim to let their voices “speak for themselves” to the degree possible, in hopes of bringing to life their stories, challenges, grief, successes, beliefs, insights, and influences. I n Part Two, entitled “(In)visibilities” I pose the question “what legacies of nuclear power and nuclear waste are rendered visible when we strip away the histories of men? .” I have chosen

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26 to use the term (in)visibility to represent the dynamic and multidimensional layering of visibilities and invisibilities in the lives of women. Moreover, I deploy the term (in)visibility to suggest that visibility and invisibility exist, not as a strict binary but as a fluid and dynamic spectrum. Using the theme of (in)visibility as a heuristic device, I seek to shed light on the gendered dynamics related to nuclear technologies and their impacts. In doing so, I reveal the legacies of invisibility – by which I mean the trans generational and trans historical effects of (in)visibility – at work in the lives of women. Like ionizing radiation2 , our histories, which have so often been androcentric and thus at best anemic in their treatment of the agency of women, have (in)visible, pervasive, and longlasting impacts, which directly and disproportionately affect the lives of women, people of color, and other underrepresented individuals. Exploring the gendered dynamics of (in)visibility can reveal new understandings about women’s experiences, beliefs, and cultural influences, including with regard to peacemaking and environmental causes. I n Chapt er 5 , I detail the life and work of Dr. Helen Caldicott, an Australian pediatrician who became one of the most visible anti nuclear activists in the United States during the 1980s. Despite her public visibility, Dr. Caldicott has often been dismissed, beli ttled, and ignored, and has overcome a variety of gender rooted challenges in both her personal and professional life. In Chapter 6 , I explore the contributions of Mary Olson, an anti nuclear lobbyist, radiation survivor, and founder of Gender Radiation I mpact Project (GRIP), a non profit organization devoted to research and education about the harms posed by radiation on human bodies, and especially on women. Despite her relative invisibility as a woman and a lobbyist in the political milieu of Washington D.C. in the 1980s and 1990s , her experiences and 1 A bi product of nuclear reactions created through the process of fission, fusion, and decay. Ionizing radiation is categorized into two main types: directly ionizing which includes the emission of Alpha and Beta particles, and indirectly ionizing which includes the emi ssion of Gamma particles and X rays.

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27 contributions have had visible and tangible consequences, both in her own personal life, and also within the global conversation about nuclear power and nuclear waste. The title of Part Three, “(Dis)integration,” speaks to the energy released as nuclear waste decays but also to the fracturing and destruction of individual lives by nuclear fallout or the radioactive biproducts of nuclear power. But integration also speaks to much of the work that women have done in forming communities to fight against the effects of nuclear disintegration. Chapter 7 thus tells the story of two women, Wendy Oser and Joanna Macy, and their shared work as part of the Nuclear Guardianship Forum. Oser’s personal experi ences speak to the devastating consequences of disintegration at work in the lives of women directly affected by radioactive nuclear waste and fallout. I then explore the better known life and contributions of the scholar and activist Joanna Macy , includin g her innovative and integrative work on despair and empowerment, and how it was expressed through the Council of All Beings and the Work that Reconnects. As a friend and colleague, Oser experienced first hand the powerful effects of integration facilitate d by Joanna and speaks to the profound affect she has had on others and the anti nuclear movement. Part Four explores the theme of “(Dis)ease” as a motivating factor for environmental activism. A common trope in religious narratives, disease is often ass ociated with wayward, impious, or heretical behavior. The metaphor of disease is often used to underscore the deteriorating state of the planet in the grips of anthropogenic climate change. Disease is also often linked to the debilitating and sometimes dea dly side effects of nuclear radiation, whether from nuclear weapons production, explosions, or power systems. Defined differently, however, disease is also a quality or action that adversely affects a group of people and is also evocative of a sense of disease, or uneasiness.

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28 In Chapter 8 , for example, I examine the life of Linda Seeley, an environmental activist and the spokesperson for the organization Mothers for Peace. Established in the city of San Luis Obispo in central California, Mothers for Peace focused on shutting down the Diablo Canyon Nuclear Power Plant, which was built along the central California coast near Seeley’s hometown. A growing sense of dis ease informed Seeley’s activism as she worked to expose the dangers of nuclear power to her community. In Chapter 9 , I investigate the work of Karen Coulter, an environmental activist and early member of the radical environmental group EarthFirst!, who later founded the Blue Mountains Biodiversity P roject in Oregon. Her activist career, however, began when a sense of disease associated with a “not in my backyard” (NIMBY) reaction, led her to fight against the MX Missile planned for Utah and Nevada. When the government abandonend the landbased missi le system, Coulter saw the success as her “green light for activism” and went on to protest the Nuclear White Trains and engage in other, anti nuclear weapons activism. Coulter’s activist life has compromised her own health and safety to fight against capi talism, patriarchy, and ecocide, and the (dis)eases that she believes they inspire. In Chapter 10, the conclusion, I will gather the major themes that have emerged from this research and illuminate the connections between women, religion, and the anti nuclear movement, as well as how these women helped to set the stage for the environmental movement that, at least in part, grew out of the movements I discuss in this research . Their stories – their accomplishments, their grief, their long odds, and indeed their power has opened my eyes to new connections between gender, environmentalism, and religion.

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29 CHAPTER 3 “WHERE ARE ALL THE WOMEN?”: A REVIEW OF LITERATURE AT THE INTERSECTIONS OF ENVIRONMENTAL HISTORY AND RELIGIOUS STUDIES Environmentalis m within the North American context has a longstanding historical tradition and has been widely discussed in the works of historians, philosophers, ethicists, and scholars of religion. Environmental histories of North America have shown the multifaceted re lationships between humans and their various environs, and detailed changes in landscapes brought on by human interaction and intervention.1 The history of Western intellectual thought about the environment has been robustly recounted by renowned scholars including Roderick Nash, Clarence Glacken, Donald Worster, William Cronan, and Mark Reisner, whose impressive contributions have shaped the field. Importantly, Nash (2014 [1967]), Glacken (1967), and Worster (1994 [1977]) each showed how religious perspec tives influenced moral and social attitudes about nature and the environment, and how those attitudes informed individual’s engagement with the other than human, natural world. Influenced by their work, and by Lynn White Jr.’s claim that the teachings of W estern Abrahamic religions are at the root of our global ecologic crisis (1967), many scholars have taken up the conversation, and have begun to look critically at the relationships between humans, their religious and spiritual beliefs, and their environme ntal practices.2 As a graduate student in the field of religion and nature, these histories were formative in my education. Yet, as I read them, I began to notice a gap in the literature which became more 1 See, for instance, Carolyn Merchant (2012 [1993] , 2007) ; William Cronon (1983) ; Mark Fiege (2012) ; Ted Steinberg (2002) ; Andrew C. Isenberg (2000) ; John R. McNeill and George Vrtis (2017) ; Graeme Wynn (2007); Karl Jacoby (2001) ; Donald Worster (1985) ; and Linda Nash (200 6 ). 2 For a comprehensive overview of the widespread engagement with White through the field, see Bron Taylor (2016); for a comprehensive review of research into religion and environmental behavior, see Taylor, Van Wieren, and Zaleha (2016).

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30 apparent to me upon critical examination of the d iscourse. Influenced by my background in gender studies and feminist theory, I read with a critical eye toward exclusions based on gender, sex, ethnicity, and class. As I read, I noticed that many of the historical accounts written about environmentalism p rior to the 1960s and the beginning of the second wave feminist movement have given, at most, anemic attention to the roles of women and people of color . I began to wonder if the same were true for more recent histories, written after and about the 196 0s . In particular, my interests are grounded in approaches that deal critically with the intersections of environmental history and religious studies. A Critical Frame of Analysis With the rise of the feminist movement in the United States, and especially sin ce the contribution of secondwave feminism, the writing off of women’s and minority’s voices has been called out by feminist scholars across many disciplines. Despite the successes of first wave feminism, which included securing the rights for women to vote and own property, cultural obstacles have remained for women, as well as for other minority groups. Secondwave feminism, which began in the early 1960s in the United States, sought to address the pervasive social problem s of sexism and gender disparity, viewing these as the products of a patriarchal worldview informed, enforced, and perpetuated by secular and religious institutions and cultural practices. Second wave feminists sought equality in the workplace and the household and fought for increasing women’s reproductive rights. In part, the movement was informed by the widespread relegation of women back to the domestic sphere after the end of World War II. Often called one of many catalysts of the second wave feminist movement, Betty Friedan’s 1963 book The Feminine Mystique, for example, explored the ‘problem that had no name ,” a pervasive sense of dissatisfaction among middleclass women who, during 1950s America, were forced to return to domesticity (Friedan 1963). Friedan wrote that many women

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31 sequestered within the domestic sphere were unsatisfied in their role(s) as wife, mother, and/or homemaker but because of their station in life, and within the patriarchal society, they were unable to actively voice their discontent and were thereby deprived of their individuality. Friedan also argued that this prevailing social attitude created mythic norms around femininity that women were assumed to be satisfied by (i.e. being a housewife, pleasing a husband, raising children, and not pursuing an education or career). This myth was marketed widely in the mainstream media and throughout popular culture at the time. French feminist philosopher and theorist Simone de Beauvoir also came to be associated with second wave feminism, though her most influential work, Le Deuxime Sexe (trans. The Second Sex, 1949), predated the movement. Called the “feminist bible” (de Beauvoir 2011 [1949] , xii), The Second Sex is a monolith: the original two volume publication totaled 978 pages, and provided an encyclopedic overview which, as Judith Thurman wrote in the introduction to the 2011 edition, covered the “folklore, customs, laws, history, religion, philosophy, anthropology, literature, economic systems, and received ideas that have, since time began, objectified women” (de Beauvoir 2011 [1949] , xiv). The teachings of Western monotheism played no small role in this objectification, according to de Beauvoir: In the very early days of Christianity, women who submitted to the yoke of the Church were relati vely respected; but they could nonetheless worship only in secondary roles. And although marriage is considered an institution demanding mutual fidelity, it seems clear that the wife must be subordinate to the husband: through Saint Paul the fiercely ant ifeminist Jewish tradition is affirmed. Saint Paul commands self effacement and reserve from women; he bases the principle of subordination of women to men on the Old and New Testaments. “ The man is not of the woman; but the woman is of the man’; and ‘Neither was man created for the woman; but the woman for the man.” And elsewhere: “ For the husband is the head of the wife, even as Christ is the head of the church. ” In a religion where the flesh is cursed, the woman becomes the devil’s most fearsome temptati on. (de Beauvoir 2011 [1949] , 104)

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32 Male centered ideologies, including religious ideologies, de Beauvoir said, were continually reproduced as cultural myths and were pervasive throughout society. These ideologies constructed certain views about what it meant to be a woman and informed how ideas of gender were socially replicated. Importantly, de Beauvoir was the first to clearly articulate a distinction between the constructed notion of gender and biological sex (see, for instance, de Beauvoir 2011 [1949] , 62). Well known feminists of color, and lesbian feminists also, sought to carve out space for discussions of ethnicity and sexual orientation within second wave feminism. Prominent among them were figures like bell hooks and Adrianne Rich, who have been l auded for their pointed critiques of racist, sexist, classist, and homophobic injustices. In Feminist Theory: From Margin to Center , for instance, hooks pushed back against Friedan and argued that: “ The problem that had no name ” . . . actually referred to the plight of a select group of college educated, middle and upper class, married white women.[and Friedan] did not speak of the needs of women without men, without children, without homes. ignored the existence of all non white women and poor white women. [and] made her plight and the plight of white women like herself synonymous with a condition affecting all American women. (hooks 2000 [1984] , 2) Others have since critiqued The Feminine Mystique as misleading, racist, classist, and homophobic (see, for instance, Bowlby 2004 [ 1992] ; Horowitz 1998; Coontz 2012; and Fetters 2013). Despite these astute critiques, Friedan’s book still provides valuable insight to the ways that gender has been mythologized in patriarchal culture. And despite t he work of Friedan and others, the mythologization of gendered norms has persisted, though it has taken various forms. In her 1991 book The Beauty Myth, for example, Naomi Wolf described an ideological shift around gender that took place during the second half of the 20th century (Wolf 2002

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33 [1991]). Wolf argued that, inspired by the feminist movement, a transformation of advertising took place, creating a beauty myth. This myth, she contended, reflected a “backlash against feminism that uses images of female beauty as a political weapon against women’s advancement” and emerged as a means to “carry on [the] work of social control” previously done by the feminine mystique (Wolf 2002 [1991] , 10). This myth pervaded every aspect of life, functioning as “the gosp el of a new religion” that was “embraced eagerlyto fill the spiritual void” and “supplant[ed] religious authority as a policing force over women’s lives” (Wolf 2002 [1991] , 86). Wolf argued persuasively that not only is the beauty myth derived from the r eligious teachings of Western monotheism but that, in a society where “changing sexual mores loosened religious constraints on female sexual behavior,” the beauty myth “[took] advantage of women’s interim feeling of a loss of moral purpose, recreating for them in physical terms the earlier social roles in which ‘good women’ had been valued” (Wolf 2002 [1991] , 8990). Moreover, Wolf said, the beauty myth “literally reconstitute[d] out of old faiths a new one, literally drawing on traditional techniques of my stification and thought control....” in order to “functionally supplant” traditional religious beliefs (Wolf 2002 [1991], 88). A number of other scholars have also discussed the ways ideals about feminine beauty and sexuality function and are reproduced wi thin society (see, for instance, Goffman 1976 ; Adams 2010 [ 1990] , 2014; Sturgeon 2009; Cortese 2016; and Nichols 2021). In the early 1960s, political lesbianism also emerged as a part of the second wave feminist movement. As Adrienne Rich showed in “Compulsory Heterosexuality and Lesbian Experience,” “the bias of compulsory heterosexuality, through which lesbian experience is perceived on a scale ranging from deviant to abhorrent, or simply rendered invisible” has been widespread within literature an d society (Rich 1980, 632). Prevailing patriarchal social

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34 conventions, influenced in part by Western monotheism, have constructed ideas of “morally correct” forms of attraction, relationships, and marriages as being heterosexual. In the early American colo nies, records indicate that lesbianism and homosexuality were equated with bestiality and were considered unnatural (Foster 2007). In the New Haven Colony, the penalty for lesbianism was death (Katz 1976). Catherine CraftFairchild has shown that as lesbia nism became more visible in the early modern period, a growing number of social restrictions and customs were developed to suppress lesbian sexuality (Craft Fairchild 2006). Catherine A. MacKinnon as well as Barbara Ehrenreich and Deidre English have shown that women’s positionality in the modern era is intimately connected with capitalist economic systems (MacKinnon 1979; Ehrenreich and English 2005). Rich called into question the institutional understanding of “compulsory heterosexuality” – or the underst anding of heterosexuality as the societal norm which is reinforced through patriarchal worldviews and heteronormativity and the idea that “heterosexuality is presumed to be the ‘sexual preference’ of ‘most women’” (Rich 1980, 633). Moreover, Rich found t hat: The assumption that “ most women are innately heterosexual ” stands as a theoretical and political stumbling block for many women. It remains a tenable assumption, partly because lesbian existence has been written out of history or catalogued under dise ase; partly because it has been treated as exceptional rather than intrinsic. Yet the failure to examine heterosexuality as an institution is like failing to admit that the economic system called capitalism or the caste system of racism is maintained by a variety of forces, including both physical violence and false consciousness. (Rich 1980, 648) Rich called for feminists to begin questioning the idea that heterosexuality is a “preference” or a “choice” for women, and to examine the erasure of lesbian e xperience in feminist literature (Rich 1980). Third wave feminism began in the United States at the beginning of the 1990s. One of the main precipitates of the third wave movement was Anita Hill, who testified in October 1991, in

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35 front of the Senate Judic iary Committee against Clarence Thomas, a nominee for Justice of the Supreme Court of the United States. Hill charged that during her tenure at the Department of Education, her supervisor, Thomas, harassed her sexually. Nevertheless, Thomas was confirmed t o the Court.3 The backlash was widespread, and thirdwave feminism developed in response, picking up largely where the work of secondwave feminism had left off. Incorporating diversity learned through the Civil Rights movement, thirdwave feminism also focused on “intersectionality,” a term coined by Kimberl Williams Crenshaw in her 1989 article “Demarginalizing the Intersection of Race and Sex” (Crenshaw 1989). Therein, Crenshaw argued that: Black women are sometimes excluded from feminist theory and antiracist policy discourse because both are predicated on a discrete set of experiences that often does not accurately reflect the interaction of race and gender. These problems of exclusion cannot be solved simply by including Black women within an already established analytic structure. Because the intersectional experience is greater than the sum of racism and sexism, any analysis that does not take intersectionality into account cannot sufficiently address the particular manner in which Black women are subordinated. (Crenshaw 1989, 140) Intersectionality is often used today to point to how various aspects of an individuals’ identity (such as gender, ethnicity , class, sexual orientation, ability, etc.) compound and produce unique circumstances for discrim ination. Other feminist authors have argued that exploring ideas of intersectionality can help us to better understand the various ways that discrimination and oppressions have been, and continue to be, enacted against women (see, for instance, hooks 2000 [ 1984] ; Collins 2000; and Lorde 1984). Audre Lorde, who is generally associated with secondwave feminism, wrote that “as women, we have been taught either to ignore our differences, or 3 In 2018, history would repeat itself when Dr. Christine Blasey Ford accused Supreme Court Nominee, Brett Kavanaugh, of sexual assault. Kavanaugh was confirmed as Associate Justice on 6 October 2018, despite her testimony.

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36 to view them as causes for separation and suspicion rather than as for ces for change” (Lorde 1984, 112). She continued: Advocating the mere tolerance of difference between women is the grossest reformism. It is a total denial of the creative function of difference in our lives. Difference must be not merely tolerated, but se en as a fund of necessary polarities between which our creativity can spark like a dialectic. Only then does the necessity for interdependency become unthreatening. Only within that interdependency of difference strengths, acknowledged and equal, can the power to seek new ways of being in the world generate, as well as the courage and sustenance to act where there are no charters. (Lorde 1984, 111) Exploring women’s differences often provides not only a powerful space for rendering visible women’s individual lived experiences, but it also creates the opportunity for productive solidarities to form among women, both within and across sociopolitical groups. Fourthwave feminism, which began around the 2010s, is distinct from the previous waves of feminism mainly in that it uses digital media to communicate, promote, and disseminate feminist beliefs and values and continue to protest hegemonic patriarchal worldviews. In many ways, it has continued the work of previous waves: fourthwave feminists continue to fight for equal pay for equal work, speak to intersectionality and inclusion of marginalized individuals and groups, and seek to dispel mythic gender norms by broadening the understanding of what is meant by the term “gender .” This Chapter poses the cri tical question “ where are all the women ,” a question intended to give pause to scholars of religious studies and environmental history. Foremost, I seek to identify an extant gap in the literature of both disciplines concerning the extent to which women, other underrepresented individuals, and ma rginalized communities have been represented, and whether they have been given their due. In some respects, this lacuna has begun to be addressed by scholars, though, as I will show, there is still much work to be done.

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37 Literature Review Approaches in the Study of Religion Religion has, to a large extent, contributed to the perpetuation and exacerbation of marginalization of minority voices as one particular patriarchal ideological narrative. In particular, sexism and omissions based on gender, have been documented by a number of scholars in the field of religion. As early as 1885, for example, Elizabeth Cady Stanton argued that “history showsthat the moral degradation of women is due more to theological superstitions than to all other influences together” (Stanton and Spalding 1885, 389). Elizabeth Johnson argued that bias based on gender has been prevalent in the philosophy of religion (Johnson 2017 [1992]). In an analysis of Johnson’s work published in Feminist Philosophy of Religion (2004), Nancy Franke nberry contended that “androcentric bias has massively distorted every aspect of the terrain [of religion] and rendered invisible, inconsequential, or nonexistent the experience and significance of half the human race” (Frankenberry 2004 , 6). Caroline Bynum has also written on the power of symbolic representation in the production and perpetuation of implicit gender understandings (see Bynum, Harrell, and Richman 1986). A number of other critical feminists and theologians have discussed the dearth of attent ion to women by religion scholars, including radical feminist philosopher Mary Daly (1968, 1973), Naomi Goldenberg (1979) , and Feminist and Catholic Theologian Rosemary Radford Ruether (1983, 1998). In response, feminist scholars have set out to detail th e roles that women have played in the world ’ s various religious traditions. Rosemary Radford Ruether and Rosemary Skinner Keller edited a three volume series on Women and Religion in America, that addressed the role of women in American religious tradition s from the Colonial period through the midtwentieth century (Ruther and Keller 1981, 1983, 1986). In 2006, they also edited the Encyclopedia of Women and Religion in North America, an expanded study which included entries that spoke to

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38 all of the worlds’ major religious traditions, their place in the North American religious landscape, and the role of women in those traditions (Keller and Ruether 2006). In Feminist Theologies (2007), Ruether also looked at the work of pioneering women in theology and presented a “renewed feminist critique of religion” (Ruether 2007 , 2). A number of edited volumes and encyclopedias addressing the role of women and/or feminism in various world religions have also been published (see, for instance, Carmody 1989; Sharma 1987, 1994a , 1994b, 1999, 2000; King 1998; Young 1999; Juschka 2001; Peach 2002; Anderson and Young 2010; Anderson and Clack 2004; Sharma and Young 1999; Haker, Ross, and Wacker 2006; Fulkerson and Briggs 2012; Paludi and Ellens 2016; de Gaia 2018). The majority of contributions in the field of religion that deal with race and ethnicity are concerned with how certain groups of people live religiously or interact and engage with particular religious beliefs. This includes a large majority of the work on womanism a nd religion, which predominately speaks to the experiences of black women in and through their religious and social communities (see, for example, Floyd Thomas 2006; Mitchem 2002; and Townes 2006). Although these studies are valuable in that they can tell us much about certain groups of people and their religious and social practices, they generally fail to speak to the role that religion has played in constructing the views about biological differences that these groups operate within. Some scholars have engaged with this question of how religious ideologies have created and reinforced the racial categories at work in society. In his 2003 edited volume, Religion and the Creation of Race and Ethnicity , Craig Prentis explored this question looking at the myths that religious beliefs and practices have helped to create and reinforce about the categories of race and ethnicity. These categories, he argued, are “products of the human

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39 imagination” (Prentis 2 003 , 2), and while they are also negotiated in various other sociopolitical contexts, religion has played a prominent role in their manufacture and reinforcement (Prentis 2003, 112). Paul Harvey articulated a similar perspective in Bounds of Their Habita tion : Religious concepts formed racial ideas, and racial concepts infused religious ideas in American history. The two worked in tandem to create deeply held notions of where people came from (including origins, myths, and creation stories), who they are as a people, what they as a people were to do with their individual and communal lives, and how they would define themselves among the others around them. Religious ideas created racial categories and imposed race upon individual human bodies – what scholar s refer to as “ racialization, ” or “ the imparting of a cultural meanings ” [sic.] to human bodies of particular appearances . (Harvey 2017, 4) In a complementary way, Judith Weisenfeld testified in New World A Coming to a “religio racial movement” that “unde rtook the work of resignifying blackness in the context of a hierarchical racial frame” to reject imposed American racial structures (Weisenfeld 2017 , 6). Members of these movements, Weisenfeld wrote, “endowed [blackness] with meaning derived from historie s other than those of enslavement and oppression” (Weisenfeld 2017, 6). Scholars, she claimed, have “tended to emphasize white people’s agency in race making” but these movements show that non white participants are active creators who, informed by their o wn religious beliefs and practices, constructed their own social hierarchies, and challenged the construction of racial categories imposed upon them (Weisenfeld 2017 , 67). The examples of scholarly literature detailing the role that religion has played in constructing particular norms around sexuality are also sparse. Among the few that do exist is theologian Marcella AlthausReid’s The Queer God (2003). In it, she challenged what she considered the hegemonic view of compulsory heterosexuality and the ma rginalization of sexual deviance within Christian theology in Latin American Cultures. She showed the various hierarchical prejudices that have informed views of sexuality, and effectively “closeted the

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40 divine ,” and argued that by queering theology, schola rs not only make space for queer bodies, but they also liberate God (Althaus Reid 2003, 4). The twovolume edited series by Jay Johnson and Donald Boisvert on Queer Religion provided an overview of the “resistance to sexual and gender conformity in relatio n to religious discourseand in spiritual practice” in various religious traditions (Johnson and Boisvert 2012, x). Linn Marie Tonstad has written productively toward challenging hierarchical classifications of sexuality grounded in Christianity. In God and Difference (2016), Tonstad critiqued certain religious narratives about God, gender, and sexuality, and using a critical queer theory lens, argued that many theologians are guilty of perpetuating hierarchical views about gender and sexuality. In Queer Th eology: Beyond Apologetics (2018), Tonstad further grappled with Christian views about LGBTQ individuals and the various apologetic approaches that exist in the guise of creating inclusiveness. Tonstad advocated instead a queer theology that re examines religious ideologies along the lines of sex and the body and that broadens understandings of the interrelationships between religion and sexuality. In Kenyan, Christian, Queer (2019), Adriaan van Klinken challenged notions of homophobia in the context of Kenyan churches and showed these religious spaces as clear sites of LGBT activism and resistance. These sites, van Klinken argued, are being actively renegotiated to make space for the inclusion of LGBT bodies and queer religious imaginaries. Melissa Wilcox’s book Queer Religiosities is a broad introduction to the intersections of queer and religious studies and the “varied approaches to sexual, gender, and bodily diversity within many traditions” around the world (Wilcox 2021, vii). Although the fields of re ligion and religious studies have begun to address the exclusions of women and minority groups, there is still more work to be done in this area.

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41 Approaches in Intersectional Environmentalism Environmental histories tell us about the various relationships between human beings and the environments that they inhabit. They emphasize dialectic relationships whereby both human and nonhuman nature are considered active and co creating agents in the shaping of environments, cultures, and civilizations. Like other disciplines, however many of the authors writing in this field have been complicit in marginalizing the voices of women and people of color in their telling of historical relationships between humans and environments. Despite this, some recent approaches in intersectional environmentalism have made great strides toward broadening inclusiveness. Others have noted this trend as well. Paul Sutter, for instance, has written about the “increasingly fruitful intersections” of environmental history and a variety of interdisciplinary fields (Sutter 2013 , 99). In “The World With Us: The State of American Environmental History”, he argued that “this scholarship demonstrates that statist environmental management efforts contained r acial, ethnic, class, gender, and consumer ideologies, and were often contested from below” and claimed that these realizations have transformed the field (Sutter 2013 , 101 102). In her response to Sutter, Linda Nash also noted that “work produced over the last twenty years [in environmental history] has taken seriously the issues of race, class, and gender. . . [and] at the end of the day, environmental history. . . looked a lot less white, male, AngloSaxon, and Protestant” (Nash 2013, 132). The observati on made by Sutter and Nash is correct: environmental histories from the early 1990s on, have been, in general, more conscious of exclusions based on gender, ethnicity, sex, and class, and have moved toward beginning to fill the gap in many areas. To say that this work is done, however, would be an overstatement. Many areas of North American environmental history have yet to be explored in detail along these lines.

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42 In her book, Beyond Nature’s Housekeepers (2012), Nancy Unger argued that “of the growing num ber of American environmental histories that feature women or gender, many remain narrowly focused on the modern environmental movement or take a regional or otherwise limited approach” (Unger 2012, 4; see also Knapp 2005, 322).4 And really, how could the y not? In many cases, even the narrowed accounts do not begin to touch the complexities of women, their lived experiences, and their relationships with particular environments. In her own work, Unger showed that women have been active participants in Ameri ca’s environmental history in more distinct ways than as “nature’s housekeepers” (Unger 2012 , 5). Emphasizing omissions based on gender, sex, and sexuality, Unger looked at a variety of women, including Native American, colonial, enslaved, and middle class white women, to detail the various roles that women have played in shaping the American environmental landscape foregrounding the modern environmental movement. Unger situated the beginning of the movement toward gender inclusive histories as being precip itated by ecofeminist philosopher and historian Carolyn Merchant, who was one of the first to call for a gendered approach to environmental history (Merchant 1990). In The Death of Nature (1980), Merchant explicitly critiqued modern mechanistic worldviews and the Scientific Revolution for contributing to an ideology that objectifies and subjugates women. She also addressed the issue of gender within the environmental movement quite explicitly in Earthcare 4 Unger (2012) has provided a detailed list of references in endnote six, on page 223. It should be clear that, although I agree with Unger’s analysis of the limited scope of these contributions, I also find them exceptionally valuable. These contributions have all, in some way or another, worked toward filling the gap of equitable representation of women’s and other underrepresented voices in the discipline. Unger mentioned a number of studies about Rachel Carson, but only cited Linda Lear (2009 [1997]). Others that I think are important to include, and that have informed my own work in some way are Matthiessen (2007) ; Sideris and Moore (2008) ; Souder (2012) ; and those published after Unger was writing, Musil (2015) ; an d Barnet (2018). The masterful work done by Jack Davis (2009) on Marjory Stoneman Douglas is another example of the focused contributions that have worked to begin to fill this gap. See also Unger (2012), footnote nine, on page 224, for works on and by wom en naturalists, nature writers, and women environmentalists.

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43 (1996) and detailed the ways that women have been hi storically connected to nature and the environment within Western cultural narratives. Unger also argued that some of the scholarship in environmental history that portends to assuage those absences that she mentioned, is, in actuality: Potentially damagin g, such as the tendency to anthropomorphize and feminize nature through terms like “Mother Nature” and “Mother Earth,” and calling environmental exploitation the “rape” of “virgin” land. Such tendencies devalue women and work against respecting nature as a n agent in its own right: a partner, equal to humans in value and dignity. (Unger 2012, 4; see also Merchant 2003) Unger does not cite any particular sources in her critique, but much of the work done in the field of Ecofeminism, or Ecological Feminism, has been critiqued along these lines for being essentialist and for reinforcing patriarchal dominance in the ways that it relates women and people of color to the natural world. Proponents of ecofeminism are also critiqued for the strict dichotomies they draw between men and women and between nature and culture, among others. This dualistic worldview is understood as being counterintuitive to the inclusion of nonbinary individuals, and for forming false distinctions between human beings and the other than human natural world.5 Val Plumwood and others have argued that “forms of oppression from both present and past have left their traces in western culture as a network of dualisms, and the logical structure of dualism forms a major bias between forms of oppression” (Plumwood 1993 , 203). In a ddition to being simplistically portrayed as merely opposite to men, women are often depicted as a collective, homogeneous group. But “women” cannot be so easily categorized, nor can they 5 Again, it is necessary to state that there are some valuable aspects to ecofeminist approaches, and that they should not be dismissed out of hand. As Karen Warren showed in Ecofeminism: Women, Culture, Nature (1997), examining ecofeminism can provide helpful insight to the valuable environmental work that women are engaged in around the world. Other valuable contributions in ecofeminism include : Diamond and Orenstein (1990) ; Mies and Shiva (2014 [1993]) ; Plumwood (1993) ; Adams (1993) ; Diamond (1994) ; Mellor (1997) ; Salleh (1997) ; Gaard (1998) ; and Warren (2000). Hogan, Metzger , and Peterson (199 8 ) and Adams and Gruen (2014) also explore the connections between ecofeminism and nonhuman animals.

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44 be presumed to share the same ideas or experiences as other women. C ultural Anthropologist Sherry Ortner has been specifically influential to my understanding of this idea. Ortner’s “Is Female to Male as Nature is to Culture” argued that the experience of “women” is not one cohesive and identifiable thing but that the “act ual treatment of women and their relative power and contribution vary enormously from culture to culture, and over different periods in the history of particular cultural traditions” (Ortner 1972 , 5). Robert Gottlieb’s Forcing the Spring (2005) is a histor y of the North American environmental movement written along similarly essentialist lines . Gottlieb drew attention to issues of ethnicity , class, and gender within the environmental movement and discussed the ways that environmental justice groups have dea lt with these issues in the late 20th and early 21st centuries. However, despite arguing that women have played an active and important role in leadership in the environmental movement, including in activist organizations fighting against environmental injustice, Gottlieb also perpetuated misguided views about gender. Citing Penny Newman, he argued that her “leadership role does not come out of a feminist perspective” because “women are concerned about families, about placebased issues” and have “establish ed networks and a flow of knowledge that enables these women to have a strong sense of what concerns there are and to see themselves as representatives of the community” (Gottlieb 2005 , 272). While his book made significant strides toward a more inclusive history, it still fell short of breaking normative gender narratives. Other contributions in intersectional environmentalism have also made attempts to fill the gaps of different voices in the field, to various degrees of success. In Such News of the Land (2001), editors Thomas Edwards and Elizabeth DeWolfe brought together a number of contributions to show the role of women nature writers in making nature matter to the American

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45 public. Oxford’s Handbook of Environmental History ( see Isenberg 2014) and Routledge’s Handbook of Gender and the Environment ( see MacGregor 2017) both provided a broad range of contributions that address the absences of gender, ethnicity , class, and sex in environmental history discussions. A number of contributions focusing specif ically on the inclusion of nonwhite voices into environmental history have been made, and have emphasized intersections between ethnicity , class, and environmental injustice. Among them Dianne Glave and Mark Stoll’s To Love the Wind and Rain (2006), Carol yn Finney’s Black Faces, White Spaces (2014) , and Carl Zimring’s Clean and White (2015) looked specifically at the relationships between African Americans and the environment, while Jake Kosek’s Understories (2006) examined the practices of Chicano forest activists in New Mexico. Other contributions, including Paul S. Sutter and Paul M. Pressly’s Costal Nature, Costal Culture (2018) , and Mart A. Stewart’s What Nature Suffers to Groe (1996) , examined the comple x relationships between humans and the Georgia Costal region and considered the role of African and African American spiritualit ies in the shaping of environmental practices of the region. Patricia Nelson Limerick also wrote broadly about the history of th e American West in The Legacy of Conquest (1987) . Therein, she described in detail the diverse relationships between peoples, cultures, and their environments in the shaping of the American west. In Converging Stories (2005), Jeffrey Meyers argued that the connections between race and ecology have been obscured in American literature and showed that there are distinct connections between the oppression enacted against people of color and environmental injustices. Moreover, Chad Montrie has written several books that look at class and labor in relationship to the modern environmental movement (Montrie 2003, 2008, 2011). In A People’s

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46 History of Environmentalism in the United States (2011), Montrie used a Marxist approach to propose a revisionist history of t he environmental movement as a product of the relationship between the working class and the natural world and grounded the roots of the modern environmental movement much earlier than other historians, in the beginning of the 19th century. Others have also focused on class but tend to look at specific environmental issues (see also Blum 2008; Maher 2008 ; Newman 2016; and Ray 1999). Exploring the various intersectionalities of oppressions, Dorceta Taylor examined how gender, race, and class influenced The R ise of the American Conservation Movement (2016) and Rachel Stein, in her edited volume New Perspectives on Environmental Justice (2004) , explored issues of environmental justice with an emphasis on gender and sexuality, looking at women’s and gay men’s en vironmental activism. Ellen Spears also explored the intersectionality of classist and racist oppression in the fight over the dumping of PCBs in Alabama by the American agrochemical company, Monsanto, in Baptized by PCBs (2016). Other scholars writing in relevant fields have also linked patriarchal worldviews to the suppression of nonhuman animal nature. Eileen Crist for example wrote in “Ecocide and the Extinction of Animal Minds ,” that in the history of Western culture, humans have both denied and unde restimated the mental lives of animals. She argued that this apparent oversight is a purposeful silencing of animal voices through cultural ideological narratives (Christ 2013 , 45). In a complementary way, Carol Adams argued in The Sexual Politics of Meat that “what, or more precisely who we eat is determined by the patriarchal politics of our culture” (Adams 2010 [1990] , 15). Catriona Mortimer Sandilands and Bruce Erickson’s edited volume Queer Ecologies (2010) examined the intersections of environmental s tudies with critical race theory and queer theory. The various Chapter s in that volume interrogated the:

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47 Ongoing relationship between sex and nature that exists institutionally, discursively, scientifically, spatially, politically, poetically, and ethically. with an eye to developing a sexual politics that more clearly includes considerations of the natural world and its biosocial constitution, and an environmental politics that demonstrates an understanding of the ways in which sexual relations or ganize and influence both the material world of nature and our perceptions, experiences, and constitutions of that world. (MortimerSandilands and Erickson 2010, 5) In the face of hierarchical domination of non human organisms, some analysts, including M arti Kheel and Temple Grandin, have taken direct action, drawing parallels between the treatment of animals and the treatment of women and the disabled (respectively). In a unique approach, Ted Steinberg took the major question of American Environmental Hi story – how humans have influenced the American environmental landscape and flipped it on its head, asking instead how nonhuman nature (defined as “plants and animals, climate and weather, soil and water”) have shaped the history of America (Steinberg 2002 , ix). The Intersections of Religion and Environmental History At the intersections of religion and environmental history, and specifically within the field of religion and nature, many scholars have contributed to the growing discussion on the connections between religious beliefs and practices and environmental thought and action. Though there are a number of noteworthy books and edited volumes that explore these intersections globally,6 those contributions that focus on a North American conte xt are of particular relevance here. These contributions have focused on whether, and if so to what extent, individuals ’ and groups’ religious and/or spiritual beliefs have contributed to their environmental attitudes and behaviors. 6 See, for instance, Roger S. Gottlieb (1996 , 1999 , 2006, 2019) ; Jared Diamond (1997, 2005) ; John Dryzek (1997) ; and the Religion and Ecology Series edited by Mary Evelyn Tucker and John Grim ( 19972004).

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48 Early writers, including Ralph Waldo Emerson, Henry David Thoreau, John Muir , and Aldo Leopold, among others, are lauded by more recent scholars for having been among the first to recognize and document connections between religious beliefs and values and environmental proclivi ties. But many others have continued the discussion. In Nature Religion in America (1990) , for instance, Catherine Albanese argued that there has been a religion of nature present in America since before colonization which combined in various ways with Christian beliefs and practices. John F. Sears looked at American tourist destinations in Sacred Places, including Yosemite, Niagara Falls, and Mammoth Caves. Therein, Sears argued that these natural sites “assumed some of the functions of sacred places in tr aditional societies” (Sears 1989 , 5). These sites, Sears showed, were both transcendent and ambiguous – in their grandeur and beauty they were heralded as sublime, but in a quickly industrializing nation, the lack of resources they provided made them usele ss because they could not be commodified. John Gatta took a different approach in Making Nature Sacred (2004) and investigated the “diverse theologies of Creation that have arisen and found figurative expression within the primary context of Western religi on” (Gatta 2004, 7). In Inherit the Holy Mountain (2015) , Mark Stoll explored the religious roots of American environmentalism, and drew connections between the moral traditions of specific religious denominations, and the ways those morals are transcribed onto society and embedded within the ways people think about the environment. Justin Farrell argued similarly in The Battle for Yellowstone (2015), that the ongoing confrontation over Yellowstone National Park is mired in moral and spiritual roots associa ted with the formation of the American West. Evan Berry also took up the discussion of the religious roots of American environmentalism in Devoted to Nature (2015) . Berry found that the environmental movement is informed by an explicitly Christian concept of salvation which has both informed and marked the boundaries for how participants in

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49 the environmental movement think about human relationships with the natural world. Among the most important contributions in the field is Bron Taylor’s Dark Green Religi on (2010). Therein, Taylor argued that in light of global climate change and continued globalization, that a dark green religion has emerged in North America, and around the globe, that “considers nature to be sacred, imbued with intrinsic value, and worthy of reverent care” (Taylor 2010, ix). Taylor’s book has been cited over 650 times and inspired other scholars to look at a number of global environmental practices and explore their various religious and spiritual dimensions. Despite the continued growth and development of the field of religion and nature, the contributions that critically engage with issues of gender, race, ethnicity, and sex, remain limited. In relation to gender in particular, Tovis Page challenged the equation of ecofeminism with critical gender analysis and argued that there has been a “near exclusive emphasis” on ecofeminism and an “underdevelopment of other productive forms of gender analysis” in the field of religion and nature (Page 2007, 293, 300). In “Has Ecofeminism Cornered the Market?,” Page said that although ecofeminism has been a “valuable mode of analysis” (Page 2007 , 301) especially in its critique of androcentrism, it is limited in the sense that it is not universally applicable, having deep roots in the West and in Chris tianity in particular, and that it has a “predilection for progressive and liberal forms of religion” (Page 2007 , 302303). Page called for more studies that use critical gender scholarship, that are empirically based, and that pay attention to orthodox an d traditional forms of religious thought and practice (Page 2007). Page rearticulated the claim that there is a dearth of extant scholarship on critical gender analysis in her Chapter “Feminist, Gender, and Sexuality Studies in Religion and Ecology” in the 2011 edited volume, Inherited Land. Page’s analysis is still relevant today. She argued that contributions from Rosemary Radford Ruether (1992, 1995 [1975] , 1996, 2005), and much of

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50 the work done in edited volumes including the Religion and Ecology series and the Encyclopedia of Religion and Nature ( Taylor 2005 a ) fail to approach gender from a critical frame of analysis. Other approaches, such as those from Val Plumwood (2002), Cartriona Sandilands (1999), and Karen Warren (2000) fail to engage critically with the intersections between gender and religion, and address religion in “simplistic and problematic ways” (Page 2007, 301, fn.14). There are, however, some approaches in the field of religion and nature that have critically engaged with the categories of gender, ethnicity, and sex. Heather Eaton, for instance, took a critical approach to ecofeminism in Introducing Ecofeminist Theologies (2005), and showed how certain common themes (such as the association with women and nature) developed, as well as th e strengths and limitations of these claims for the ecofeminist agenda. Looking at a number of case studies situated in North America and other regions around the globe, Eaton and Lois Ann Lorentzen produced Ecofeminism and Globalization (2003) , which took seriously ecofeminist movements in the context of globalization, and critically analyzed them within their social and political contexts, challenging basic ecofeminist assumptions. Rebecca Kneale Gould investigated the practice of homesteading as a rejection of the consumer driven practices of modern culture in At Home in Nature (2005) . Therein, Gould showed how going “back to the land” through homesteading could be seen not only as a religious practice, but as an ethic of environmentalism, or of “simple living, of being producer more than consumer and of letting nature set the terms for one’s daily chores” (Gould 2005 , xvii, 2). Gould engaged with questions of sex and gender in Chapter 7 where she discussed the “competing identities” that shape d aily religious life and environmental practices in the work of homesteading. In Green Sisters (2007), Sarah McFarland Taylor detailed her fieldwork with a group of Catholic nuns dedicated to organic farming and sustainable living. Taylor looked at the gendered dynamics of

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51 the nuns’ practices and argued that the “profound effect that the women’s movement and other social justice movements had on women’s congregations also opened channels for sisters’ questioning of dominant social structures, cultural paradi gms, gender relations, and dynamics of power and authority” (Taylor 2007, 30). Sarah Pike also explored the role that second wave feminism had in shaping New Age and Neopagan religions in America in her 2004 book bearing that title. These groups, Pike show ed: Believe that healing the self through changing practices and perceptions of gender and sexuality will bring about broader changes in socialization and gender politics[and] that the transformation of the body, sexuality, and gender roles is a precondi tion for the transformation of society . (Pike 2004, 116) Moreover, Pike argued that the American Indian and Black Power movements brought “separatism into the awareness of many Americans” and led to the “subsequent turn to and incorporation of indigenous’ peoples practices” into New Age and Neopagan belief systems (Pike 2004, 8182). In Crimes Against Nature (2001), Karl Jacoby took a critical look at the history of the American conservation movement and its effects on common people who inhabited American Landscapes. Conservationism, he argued, produced judgmental views of “rural folk as operating with a flawed understanding of the natural world” and created a phenomenon that he termed “environmental banditry ,” or the “criminalization” of traditional and c ustomary activities such as hunting, fishing, and cutting timber (Jacoby 2001, 2). Jacoby proposed a “moral ecology” that showed “the moral universe that shaped local transgressions of conservation laws, enabling us to glimpse the pattern of beliefs, practices, and traditions that governed how ordinary, rural folk interacted with the environment” (Jacoby 2001, 3). Carol Wayne White engaged with critical race theory in Black Lives and Sacred Humanity (2016) to reassess the intersections of African American religiosity and religious naturalism. Amanda Baugh has explored the connections

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52 between environmentalism in urban landscapes and issue of race, ethnicity, and class in God and the Green Divide (2016). She argued that looking at “faith in place” provides a w ay to analyze latent assumptions about race, ethnicity, and class as they pertain to the development of religious environmentalism (Baugh 2016). J. Michael Clark (1993) and Daniel T. Spencer (1996) both have written productively on the contributions that gay perspectives can offer to the discourse on theology and environmentalism. In 2018, Whitney A. Bauman published the edited volume Meaningful Flesh . Therein, a number of authors reflect ed on the intersections of religion, nature, and sexuality through the lens of critical queer theory. Two special issues published in the Journal for the Study of Religion, Nature and Culture , have also critically engaged with approaches from feminist, womanist, and critical race studies in order to begin to fill the gap in the field. In the “Engendering Nature” special issue, the authors engaged critically with notions of how gender, religion, and nature inform, construct, and interact with one another (Nichols and Berndet 2021). Conclusion Although there has been progress toward filling the gaps of the voices of women, people of color, and other minority groups in both religious studies and intersectional environmentalism, and at their intersection in the field of religion and nature, there is still work to be done. A number of individuals and groups are still under represented or completely unrepresented in our histories, and the histories of certain movements have yet to be rewritten to include those voices. If scholars in these fields intend to attend to inclusivity, cri tical questions such as “ where are all the women ” must continue to be posed, and diligent efforts must be made to re write the hyper masculine, heteronormative histories that we have been told.

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53 CHAPTER 4 A BRIEF HISTORY OF THE NORTH AMERICAN ANTI NUCLEAR MOVEMENT The Rise of the Nuclear Age On 16 July 1945, the first nuclear bomb was detonated during a test in the Jornada del Muerto desert in New Mexico. J. Robert Oppenheimer, the head of Los Alamos National Laboratory1, director o f the Manhattan Project2 and “father of the atomic bomb” called the atomic test “Trinity” after the poem by John Donne “ Holy Sonnet XIV” also known as “Batter My Heart, ThreePersoned God” (Donne 1633). Invoking the triune father, son, and holy spirit of Christian doctrine, Donne plead: Batter my heart, three personed God; for you As yet but knock, breathe, shine, and seek to mend; That I may rise and stand, o’erthrow me, and bend Your force to break, blow, burn, and make me new. I, like an usurped town, t o another due, Labor to admit you, but O, to no end; Reason, your viceroy in me, me should defend, but is captived, and proves weak or untrue. yet dearly I love you, and would be loved fain, But am betrothed unto your enemy. Divorce me, untie or break that knot again; Take me to you, imprison me, for I, Except you enthrall me, never shall be free, Nor even chaste, except you ravish me . (Donne 1633) Oppenheimer’s naming choice reveals a dynamic relationship between nuclear power, gender, and religion. In the poem Donne beseeched God, who in the monotheistic traditions was, until recently, exclusively referred to with the masculine pronoun, to “overthrow ,” “break ,” “burn,” 1 The Los Alamos National Laboratory was built i n Los Alamos, New Mexico in 1943 for the development and design of nuclear weapons under the Manhattan Project. For more information see “ Los Alamos National Laboratory ” ( n.d.). 2 The Manhattan Project was a United States research and design project initiated in 1942, during World War II, for the express purposes of developing nuclear weapons. The project was directed by U.S. Army Corps of Engineers Major General Leslie Groves. For more information see, for instance , Groves ( 1962 ) ; Gosling ( 1999) ; Kelly ( 2007 ) ; and Reed ( 2014 ) .

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54 “take,” and “imprison ,” in a display of dangerous and destructive masculine power. Conversely, Donne used words including “labor ,” “chastity ,” “betrothal ,” and “ravishing,” typically associated with femininity and submissiveness, to show the speakers’ role as yielding and obedie nt. By naming the atomic test “Trinity” with a nod toward the “three personed God” in Donne’s poem, Oppenheimer associated nuclear weapons with destructive, Godlike, masculine power. In 1963, Oppenheimer vividly recalled his reaction to seeing the first detonation along those lines: We knew the world would not be the same. A few people laughed. A few people cried. Most people were silent. I remembered the line from the Hindu scripture, the BhagavadGita. Vishnu... says, “ Now, I am become Death, the destroyer of worlds ” . I suppose we all thought that one way or another. (Freed and Giovannitti 1965)3 Humans, and specifically a team of elite male scientists, were elevated to the level of gods: as the creators and controllers of nuclear weapons they had becom e god like in their power, wielding the power to destroy the world.4 Importantly though, these physicists were not only men, and exclusions at Los Alamos were not only based on gender. These physicists were white men – white men on colonized land. Los Ala mos Laboratory was built on ancestral Anasazi lands, and is surrounded by a number of Pueblo peoples, including the Santa Clara, San Juan, San Lorenzo, San Ildefonso and Nambe, Cochiti, Santo Domingo, and Tesuque (Kuletz 1998, 49). The building of Los Alam os labs was among the first acts of, what Ward Churchill and Winona LaDuke called nuclear or “radioactive colonialism” (Churchill and LaDuke 1985 , 1992). 3 Oppenheimer spoke these words in the television documentary The Decision to Drop the Bomb ( Freed and Giovannitti 1965). To watch the footage , see “J. Rober t Oppenheimer ‘Now I am Become Death’ ” ( n.d. ) . 4 The Manhattan Project team included J. Robert Oppenheimer, Leo Szilard, Hans Bethe, Ernest O. Lawrence, Klaus Fuchs, and Glenn Seaborg. See “Who Were the Manhattan Project Scientists ? ” ( 2017 ) .

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55 As Danielle Endres showed, the term refers to a “system of domination through which governments and c orporations target indigenous peoples and their lands to maintain the nuclear production process” (Endres 2009, 40). Enders and others have written about how radioactive colonialism has been carried out against groups throughout North America.5 On 6 August 1945, less than one month after the first nuclear weapons test, President Harry Truman ordered a direct attack on Hiroshima, Japan. Captain Col. Paul Tibbetts flew the plane that dropped the bomb, endearingly called “Little Boy.” Only three days later, on 9 August 1945, Captain Col. Charles Sweeny flew a second plane over Nagasaki, Japan, which dropped the bomb “Fat Man.” Estimates on the death tolls from these two attacks vary widely due to uncertainty about the number of individuals that occupied the c ities at the time of the bombing, as well as a lack of knowledge about the number of people who died from short and longterm side effects from exposure to the bomb’s radiation. Frank Barnaby wrote in 1977 that “the number of people killed by Little Boy and Fat Man probably greatly exceeds a quarter of a million, a death rate of over 40 percent” ( Barnaby 1977, 51; see also Upton et al . 1990; and National Academy of Science 2006). Makhijani et al . (2006) and Olson (2011) have both shown the disproportionate long term effects of ionizing radiation on women and girls from these bombings. 5 See also Churchill ( 1993) ; Grinde and Johansen ( 1995) ; Thorpe ( 1995); Kuletz ( 1998) ; LaDuke ( 1999 ); and Runyan ( 2018) . Endres ( 2009) noted the accusations of plagiarism and academic misconduct against Churchill in 2006. She wrote that “Churchill’s work o n radioactive colonization is not indicted in the report” from the University of Colorado Boulder. The report Endres ( 2009) cited (Report of the Investigative Committee of the Standing Committee on Research Misconduct at the University of Colorado at Bould er (May 2006; http://www.colorado.edu/news/reports/churchill/download/Ward ChurchillReport.pdf ) ) is no longer available online. In 2009, during his hearing at the Colorado District Court in Denver, the jury found that Churchill’s rights under the first ame ndment had been unlawfully violated. The judge in the case overturned that decision. In September of 2012, the Colorado Supreme Court upheld the judges’ decision. For more information and a report on the court proceedings from the American Association of U niversity Professors (AAUP), see Ward Churchill v. University of Colorado at Boulder 2012. It is also important to note that Churchill was outspokenly critical of appropriation of Native American cultures and ideas (Churchill 1993; see also Taylor 1997, 18 3) but egregiously claimed to be Indian despite having no genealogical ties to Native American bloodlines (see Rave 2009).

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56 The attacks brought a swift end to World War II (WWII); Japan announced its unconditional surrender five days after the explosion of the second bomb, on 14 August 1945.6 In t he aftermath, a statue of the Virgin Mary, blackened on one side, was recovered from the entrance of Urakami Cathedral in Nagasaki. The “Burned Madonna” or “Madonna of Nagasaki” became a symbol for the innocent, faceless victims of the bombings, her hollow eyes reflecting the horrors of nuclear war. Oppenheimer later remarked, that “Physicists have known sina knowledge which they cannot lose” (Oppenheimer 1947). The religious language used to describe the bomb connects man, and specifically the scientists who created the bomb, directly with both gods and sin. Valerie Kuletz called the Los Alamos physicists the “high priests of our secular religion – science” and described the lab as a “Mecca for those seeking to know the forces behind the divine, the emptin ess, the chaos, the plan, the universe” ( Kuletz 1998 , 50). Moreover, T. Jeremey Gunn has argued that, in order to set themselves apart from the Soviets in the early 1950s, Americans came to adopt an “American National Religion” that included “governmental theism, military supremacy, and capitalism as freedom” all of which were intended as a “spiritual weapon to attack atheistic communism” ( Gunn 2009, 910). This overview of the rise of the nuclear age connects nuclear power, religion, gender, and ethnicity . Examples of these gendered associations abound. When the United States began testing nuclear weapons on the island of Bikini Atoll on 1 July 1946, the first bomb dropped “had a pin up of Rita Hayworth pasted to its surface” (Griffin 1989, 75, 79). Only fo ur days later, French designer Louis Rard, debuted his new women’s swimsuit, the bikini, which he “claimedwas sure to be as explosive as the U.S. military tests” after which it was named (Le Zotte 2015). The new swimsuit, which revealed a woman’s navel f or the first time, was 6 Japan officially surrendered on 2 September 1945.

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57 “formally decreedsinful” by the Vatican (Le Zotte 2015). A number of authors have noted the gendered naming and gendered language that is pervasive throughout the nuclear discourse. John Wills observed, for example, that: Nuclear im ages were often couched in terms connoting sexual violence, with nuclear weapons being compared to the male sex organ, and Hollywood starlets being described as “ anatomic bombs ” . Nuclear power plants were similarly endowed with sexual references, from the “ breeder ” reactor to the analogy between a nuclear meltdown and a sexual climax . ( Wills 2006, 82) Wills has also evidenced that nuclear power was often equated with the nuclear family. Ads for household items promoted the idea that women did not have to “understand the actual science of the atom” but if “nuclear power was packaged as a sleek and attractive electrical good ,” like a “nuclear powered toaster ,” they would “we lcome the atom into their homes” and “reap the benefits of man’s work” ( Wills 2006, 82). Moreover, Mary Anne Schofield depicted the gendered dynamics of the nuclear industry from the earliest days of the Manhattan project. “From its inception,” she wrote, “Los Alamos did not welcome women, “normal” society, or family life” (Schofield 2009, 68). Quoting Peter Bacon Hales, she said: The District hired scientists, it didn’t hire families – it didn’t even want them on site, if it could avoid them. It hired individuals, almost always men, and it grudgingly allowed them to bring their wives, but only after trying to persuade or require their new employees to leave the women at home. (Schofield 2009, 68; see also Hales 1997 , 211) A number of scholars have examined the intersection of gender and the nuclear debate in North America.7 Most of these observers, however, look at specific organizations or groups , or 7 Contributions that have been made about regions outside the North American context also look at the intersections with gender, some more critically than others. F or example, on Germany, see Engels ( 2002) ; Sweden, see Sundstrm and McCright ( 2016 ) ; Japan, see Whr ( 2014); Kimura ( 2016); and Yamane ( 2014 ) ; India, see Das ( 2007) ; Unite d Kingdom, see Henwood and Pidgeon ( 2015) ; Roseniel ( 1995 , 2000 ) ; Cook and Kirk ( 1983 ) ; and Liddington ( 1991 ) . See also several entries in Kramarae and Spender ( 2004 ) , including (and specifically) Corcoran Nantes ( 2004 ); Daly ( 2004 ); and Michel ( 2004) .

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58 deal with gender in a limited and uncritical way. There are even fewer contributions that critically look at issues associated with ethnicity, class, or environmental justice. For the present purpose is it especially important to note the dearth of sources that engage with critical gender or critical race theories and question whether religious or spiritual be liefs and practices have played a role in shaping individuals ’ and groups ’ worldviews. Historical Accounts of Gender, Ethnicity , and Class in the AntiNuclear Movement – A Literature Review During the late 1970s and early 1980 s, a significant amount of re search was conducted to understand why women tended to be less supportive of nuclear power than men. In the mid 1970s , Nuclear Energy Women (NEW) was founded in order to “cultivate women’s ‘nuclear acceptance’” and to help show women that “atomic jobs are safe, secure and creative” (Gatlin 1987, 253). In 1984, the United States Congress published a report entitled Nuclear Power in the Age of Uncertainty. The report’s authors wrote that “the growth of the women’s movement” had been “closely intertwined with negative attitudes toward nuclear power” and that “public opinion polls over the past 20 years [since 1964] have shown a strong correlation between gender and attitudes toward nuclear power: Women are consistently more opposed” ( See Nuclea r Power in the Age of Uncertainty 1984: 230). This “gender gap” was supported by a number of qualitative research studies (see, for example, Passino and Lounsbury 1976; Melber et al . 1977; Brody 1981; Nealey, Melber, and Rankin 1983; and Mitchell 1984). M oreover, several studies found no correlation between the degree of knowledge about and support for nuclear power (see, for example, Kasperson et al . 1980; and Reed and Wilkes 1980). In “The Gender Gap and Nuclear Power: Attitudes in a Politicized Environm ent ,” Solomon, Tomaskovvic Devey, and Risman set out to explain the gender gap and “why females are less likely than males to support nuclear power production”

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59 ( Solomon, Tomaskovvic Devey, and Risman 1989, 401). Their quantitative study examined the levels of understanding “safety” and “awareness” around the Shearon Harris Nuclear Power Plant (Solomon, Tomaskovvic Devey, and Risman 1989, 404). They found that although levels of “awareness” did not cause the gender gap there was “good empirical evidence to s upport the proposition that women’s higher safety concerns explain[ed] the gender gap in attitude toward nuclear power” and that “safety concerns provide[d] a significant, although not complete, explanation” for the gap ( Solomon, Tomaskovvic Devey, and Ris man 1989, 412). Although these studies were valuable in that they illuminated a distinction between the level of support that nuclear power received from men and women during the 1970s and 1980s, they were also limited. These studies, as was typical at th e time, failed to employ a gender critical lens and to consider the perspectives of individuals that may fall outside of the male/female binary. Moreover, the studies did not account for differences in ethnicity , class, or various other factors that might also contribute to individuals’ degree of support beyond their gender. The studies also failed to ask critical questions about why certain individuals are more supportive of nuclear power than others and to consider that, for most individuals, decisions ar e not made based only on one factor, but are informed by a number of factors, including but not limited to safety, lived experience, religious/spiritual beliefs, and moral/ethical concerns. Other contributions have been made that do explore the questions of gender or race to various degrees and levels of effectiveness. The Routledge Handbook of Gender and Development only mentioned nuclear in passing, merely stating that “in the United States, women pioneered movements to clean up toxic waste sites and prot est nuclear power” (Coles, Gray, and Momsen 2015, 81). Some edited volumes, including Over Our Dead Bodies: Women Against the Bomb (Thompson 1983) and Exposing Nuclear Phallacies (Russell 1989), have

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60 brought together a number of women and feminist scholars to relate personal narratives and apply critical lenses to the subject of nuclear. Among them, some have spoken to the role of ideological presuppositions in nuclear discourses: Charlene Spretnak, for instance, showed that the “patriarchal ideal of domina nce” has informed militaristic worldviews and nuclear arms proliferation (Spretnak 1989, 54), and Susan Griffin has written on the tendency to “philosophical[ly] divide human consciousness from nature” and to engage in dualistic thinking (Griffin 1989 , 75) . Still others have drawn attention to issues of both ethnicity and class in the nuclear discussion but have not questioned the regressive stereotypes on which they are based. In Critical Masses, for instance, Thomas Wellock noted briefly that there was a difference in gender around the protests for the nation’s first proposed commercial nuclear power plant in Bodega Bay, California. Concern about radioactive fallout contaminating milk from nearby dairy farms, he wrote, caused a “fallout issue [that] point ed to a gender difference among the protesters” ( Wellock 1998, 47). “Whether from bombs or power plants ,” Wellock said, “the threat to milk was one that aroused women to protest more than men” because “milk was almost sacred food” and “potential contaminat ion of cow’s or women’s breast milk represented a direct physical threat” ( Wellock 1998, 47). In her Chapter , “Lost Almost and Caught Between the Fences,” Mary Anne Schofield showed that “the fencing, the boundaries [and] the censorship” at Los Alamos: contribute[d] to maintaining the centuries old symbol of women as a paradigm of tranquility and domesticity, a repository of all the beliefs and values that must remain at the home front when the soldierhusband goes to the battlefront; she is the prized pos session that must be protected from the harsh realities of the war zone. ( Schofield 2009, 71)

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61 Looking specifically at the narratives of women that were at Los Alamos (and especially those recorded in Wilson and Serber 1988 ; Fisher 1985; and Roensch 1993)8 Schofield argued that despite boundaries that attempted to silence their voices and later the ir stories, these women built their own fences based on norms of domesticity and the feminine mystique and embodied a feminist ethic of care that has not been entirely lost in the history. Boundaries, for these women were blurred: “We weren’t victims impri soned by wires,” Phyllis Fisher wrote, “but protected by barbed wire, we were developing a weapon that could victimize the outside worldThe line between victim and victimizer was becoming unclear to me” (Fisher 1985 , 16; see also Schofield 2009, 80). Will iam David Freeman briefly addressed the role of ethnicity , class, and gender played in staffing nuclear powered submarines in “Voices from the Deep: Life and Culture aboard U.S. Navy Nuclear Submarines during the Cold War” (2009). Freeman showed that “Nuke s” – “enlisted [military] personnel with responsibility for operating a nuclear powered propulsion plant ,” and specifically submarines – were “overwhelming[ly]white males from middle class suburban or rural backgrounds” ( Freeman 2009, 24748). He argued t hat the racial disparity among Nukes was a product of the “social demographics of Cold War America” and not of discrimination based on race by the navy ( Freeman 2009, 248). Nukes had to be people who could first pass the NFQT [Nuclear Field Qualification Test] . This exam tested for a knowledge of algebra and physics, advanced high school subjects. Prospective Nukes, therefore, most likely had to be students who completed high school and had the intellectual ability to go on to college but for some reason did not do so. Nukes tended to be drawn from less affluent but still middle class backgrounds: families that could support children through high school but without financial assistancecould not send them to college. Given the racial and socioeconomic makeup of Cold War America, then, the typical Nuke was most likely to come from a white, middle income family and a suburban or rural background. ( Freeman 2009, 248) 8 For more on the history of Los Alamos and the Manhattan Project see Hales ( 1997) and Hunner ( 2003 ) . For stories written by and about women and the Manhattan Project and/or Los Alamos see Fermi ( 1961) ; Brode ( 1997) ; Jette ( 1977) ; and Wolkowitz ( 2000, 2009 [2000] ) .

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62 Freemen also noted the gender dynamic, but failed to address it critically: women, he wrote, were restricted “from combat vessels, and service aboard all such ships in the Cold War” but “some female personnel – both officer and enlisted – did train in the nuclear program to serve in support facilities” ( Freeman 2009, 248). Some authors, however, have adopted critical gender or critical race theory frames of analysis for thinking about nuclear legacies. Some of these approaches have focused on particular groups or nuclear sites. In “Mothers on the March ,” Carolyn Strange looked at the Women’s Peace Movement of the 1980s in North America and Europe and explored its historic roots. In general, women’s peace movements have held that “women, and mothers in particular, share a set of values distinct from men’s; as natural guardians of future generations , moreover, they have a particular responsibility to create a world free of nuclear threats” (Strange 1990 , 209). Yet in the 1980s, as Strange showed, the influence of the second wave feminist movement played a role in the way some women in the Peace Movem ent understood their participation and defined themselves as mothers. Feminists in particular were concerned that the association with the Peace Movement as “mothers” would reaffirm patriarchal ideologies that undermine women’s advancement and continue to relegate women to the “prescribed boundaries of femininity” (Strange 1990, 210). Their participation in the movement, alongside “women who seemed to accept their conditioning as self sacrificing mothers” helped to facilitate a conversation that united moth er’s concerns with attitudes of social justice and equity, though more still needs to be done ( Strange 1990, 216, 223). Writing specifically about the opposition to the Laguna Verde nuclear power plant in Veracruz, Mexico in Mothers and the Mexican Antinuc lear Power Movement (1999) , Velma Garca Gorena argued that the movement evolved over time and challenged traditional gendered stereotypes and boundaries between the public and

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63 private spheres. In Chapter 9, she adopted critical feminist theory to look at mother’s movements and the ethnic and class differences that emerged among them. “The Madres Veracruzanas,” she said, “have remained an upper middle class group, often actively protecting their class interests even as they struggled to protect the Mexican environment” ( GarcaGorena 1999, 12021). John Wills discussed the Mothers for Peace protest movement around Diablo Canyon Nuclear Power Plant in California, and the intersections with gendered politics that informed the protests. In respect to Diablo Canyon, Wills said that although it was given a “gender neutral name, the design, constr uction, and future operation of the plant, not forgetting its licensing hearings, represented processes controlled overwhelmingly by men” ( Wills 2006, 82). In interviews Wills conducted, interviewees spoke to the gendered dynamics of the movement as a whol e. Mary Moore , for instance, stated that the Abalone Alliance (the non violent, civil disobedience, affinity group that formed in 1977 with the aim of shutting down the Diablo Canyon Plant) represented “a real attemptto level the playing field” between me n and women (Wills 2006, 101). Moreover, Don Eichelberger said that the “anti nuclear movementwas a lot more decentralized, a lot less male dominated [and] there were men and women working closer” than in other movements in the 1960s ( Wills 2006 , 101). Barbara Epstein has written in detail about the Livermore Action Group (LAG) which developed in 1981 to protest the Lawrence Livermore National Laboratory, a nuclear weapons production facility, at the University of California. Drawing on affinity group mo dels developed by organizations including the Abalone Alliance and Clamshell Alliance (the nonviolent, civil disobedience, affinity group that formed in 1975 and was instrumental in the 1977 protests at Seabrook Nuclear Power Plant in New Hampshire) “attr acted a more diverse constituency” and

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64 included “considerably larger numbers of older people” and a “range of subcultures [that] was much broader than in either of its predecessors” ( Epstein 1991, 125). Moreover, the group itself engaged in “consensus deci sion making [which] was referred to as a ‘feminist process,’ and violations of it were likely to be regarded as anti feminist” (Epstein 1991, 139). Despite the role they played in informing LAG, however, neither feminis t nor ecological concerns were an “i mmediate focus of political attention” (Epstein 1991, 139). LAG held a number of directaction protests between 1981 and 1984 including an action on Mother’s Day 1982, which allowed only women to participate in the blockade ( Epstein 1991, 130). As a result , Epstein said, “the women who planned the event, especially the feminist cluster, gained a reputation for a militancy that pushed the nonviolence code to its limits” ( Epstein 1991, 130). The June 1982 action, for example, “drew over thirteen hundred bloc kaders and a demonstration of support of over five thousand people” and effectively “established LAG as the radical wing of the peace movement in the Bay Area” ( Epstein 1991, 131).9 In 1983, protests were held against the MX missile at the Vanderberg Air Force Base in Lompac, California. Epstein noted the role that religion played in LAG as well, stating that “Pagan anarchist affinity groups were especially prominent” ( Epstein 1991, 132) at the Vanderberg protest, and that there were various other religious affinity groups (including Christians, Quakers, and Jews) involved in the protest actions as well.10 Among the more well recognized members of LAG was Starhawk, the now well known s cholar of neoPaganism and eco feminism, and author of The Spiral Dance (1979), among other works.11 9 For a more complete history of LAG and anti nuclear protests in California in the early 1980s, see Hauser ( 2003) . 10 For a more detailed overview of the v arious religious affinity groups that made up the LAG, as well as the disagreements between various groups , see Epstein ( 1991, 1323 9 ) . 11 For an interview with Starhawk that includes a discussion of her work with LAG, see Rubin ( 1983) . Starhawk has also wr itten about her own experience with LAG in her book Truth or Dare: Encounters with Power, Authority, and

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65 Women were also instrumental in building the antinuclear movement in other respects. In Nuclear Rites, Hugh Gusterson examined the gendered dynamics of t he Livermore Laboratory in California, asnd showed that where nuclear weapons were concerned, “scientists operate in a gendered world in which the mission of the laboratory is coded as masculine, rational, and superordinate” ( Gusterson 1996, 209). Meanwhil e, he continued, “the subordinate, sentimental and emotional values associated with women and children are ghettoized in the domestic sphere” ( Gusterson 1996, 209). He likened these subordinate values with what Foucault called “‘subjugated knowledges’ – ‘n ave knowledges located low down on the hierarchy, beneath the required level of cognition or scientificity’” (Gusterson 1996, 209; see also Foucault 1980, 82). Gusterson further suggested that “struggles within American society over class and gender rela tions produced movements that contested American nuclear weapons policy, and, arguably, helped draw down the cold war [sic.] ” ( Gusterson 1996, 209). Moreover, the anti nuclear movement showed a change in middle class gender politics, creating a “heterogeneous insurrection of the domestic sphere against the prevailing gender system that had stabilized American military institutions for decades” (Gusterson 1996, 213). Other scholars have shown the role of various minority groups in opposition to nuclear technologies. In his groundbreaking book African Americans Against the Bomb, Vincent Intondi explored the role of “black activists who fought for nuclear disarmament, often connecting the nuclear issue with the right for racial equality and with liberation move ments around the world” ( Intondi 2015, 2). According to Intondi, “ t here was a consistent voice inside the black community making the case that freedom, peace, and colonialism were links in the same chain” ( Intondi 2015, 4). Within the book, he Mastery (1989) . Margot Adler also talked about the intersections of Goddess rituals and the anti nuclear movement in Drawing Down the Moon (1979).

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66 provide d a d etailed overview of black anti nuclear activism ( Intondi 2015, 2962), including by spotlighting the role of black women in organizations such as Women’s International League for Peace and Freedom (WILPF) and Women Strike for Peace (WSP) ( Intondi 2015, 6384). Some scholars have focused on issues associated with nuclear in broader geographical regions. Looking at the subject of nuclear waste dumping, Anne Runyan (2018) took a critical approach from feminis t decolonial scholarship to address the intersections of patriarchal and colonialist ideologies in resistance movements in the Great Lakes Basin of Canada. Runyan found that: Silences on nuclear colonialism are a particular legacy of gendered colonial rel ations that blind most white settler activists to the forces, in which they are implicated, that have enabled the nuclearization of Ontario and the Great Lakes Basin . (Runyan 2018, 3435) Runyan used this critical lens as the methodological framework for her entire study. Looking at the role of commercial nuclear reactors, Dean Kyne and Bob Bolin (2016) explored environmental justice issues in the United States associated with nuclear contamination. The authors argued that because “many of those exposed to U.S. (and international) nuclear weapons production and testing are colonized indigenous groups and racialized minorities” there are “clear environmental justice concerns” where nuclear power facilities are concerned ( Kyne and Bolin 2016, 2). Jessica Bark as Threet examined the impact of nuclear weapons testing on indigenous populations in the American West, as well as in the Marshall Islands and Kazakhstan. In “Testing the Bomb” ( Threet 2005), Threet argued that “the United States and the Soviet Union have been insensitive to the heightened cultural vulnerabilities that have exacerbated contaminationrelated difficulties” for these populations ( Threet 2005, 29). A number of important contributions to this discussion have also been made from within the fiel d of International Relations. Rebecca Grant and others have shown that “classic concepts

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67 of political theory [were adopted] without investigating the gender bias in themduplicat[ing] the pattern” ( Grant 1991, 9). 12 Some feminist scholars in the field, h owever, have looked specifically at the mobilization of particular gendered identities in the anti nuclear movement in the United States. Helen Laville (2002) wrote on women’s organizations during the 1950s Cold War era to address the previous exclusions o f women as actors. She challenged the ideas that the 1950s was a “period of inactivity and political apathy for American women ,” that the standard view of international relations is between government bodies and the state, and the notion “of an internation al gender based identity” ( Laville 2002 , 67). In “Shifting the gaze from hysterical mothers to ‘deadly dads ’,” Tina Managhan (2007) examined the role of “hysterical motherhood” in U.S. women’s protest movements. She argued that “hysterical enactments of m otherhood were tactically effective to the extent that they existed in a reciprocal relationship with enactments of white, middle class masculinity that were being protested against” and that they “play[ed] a vital role in undermining the logic of deterrence theory and the promise of mutually assured destruction (MAD)” (Managhan 2007, 63738). Managhan further argued for reading the hysterical female body as performative and subversive. Drawing on Judith Butler’s understanding that bodies themselves are per formative (see Butler 1988 , 1990, 1999), Managhan showed how the identity of the hysterical mother is “itself a fabrication, elaborated and made real through one’s performance of it” ( Managhan 2007, 644). Moreover, in 2013, Catherine Eschle argued that pos t structuralist feminist approaches have prompted critical re investigation of the anti nuclear weapons movement as it has been discussed within the field, with particular 12 See also Yuval Davis and Anthias ( 1989 ) and Laville ( 2002 , 4 ) . Laville quoted Grant (1991) and went on to give multiple ex amples and say that “within this construction, American women’s role in Cold War internationalism has been restricted to the symbolic level. While they might be used to demonstrate the superiority of the American system to a global audience, their particip ation is passive rather than active ” (Laville 2002, 4).

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68 attention to the roles of women. Eschle found that six distinct ways of talking about gender in relation to nuclear can be identified: “maternalist, antiviolence, culturalist, materialist, cosmopolitan, and cosmological” ( Eschle 2013, 716). These six discourses, she said, “indicated that gendered subjectivities of campaigners are being ar ticulated today differently from their Cold War counterparts and in dissimilar forms in the specific geopolitical contexts of the United States and UK” ( Eschle 2013, 721). Elaborating on each in detail, she described the various ways women have been active in the anti nuclear weapons movement, emphasizing that they are not monolithic, and that they often overlapped with one another in practice ( Eschle 2013 , 717). Looking at two figures in particular, Helen Caldicott and Angie Zelter, Eschle sought to begin to fill the gap in post Cold War attention to how women have been portrayed. These contributions have provided valuable and critical insights into the int ersections of gender, ethnicity , and class with various parts of the anti nuclear movement in North America. What they have not done, however, is look deeply at the religious roots of the ideologies that inform the nuclear debate, nor have they considered the role of individuals’ religious and/or spiritual perspectives in informing their engagement with the anti nuclear movement. The only scholar that I have found who does look critically at this intersection is Traci Brynne Voyles. In Wastelanding: Legacie s of Uranium Mining in Navajo Country (2015) she discussed how Western gender dichotomies are at odds with Din worldviews and how this created problems for industrialists looking to employ Navajo men as uranium miners in the desert southwest of the United States. “Imposing Western gender dichotomies through colonial economic development policies ,” she wrote, “forecloses (in fact, colonizes) indigenous notions of gender” and “ignore[s] and subvert[s] queer history, culture, life, and sexualities (often viol ently)” (Voyles 2015, 133). There is much work still to be done in examining the intersections of how religious and spiritual

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69 beliefs informed individuals ’ opinions about gender, race, and class, and how those were played out in the North American anti nuc lear movement. The North American Anti Nuclear Movement A History What we might today call the “anti nuclear movement” in North America was not a single, cohesive movement at all. Rather, the protest against nuclear developed along a number of distinct lines, and often centered around particular locations, policies, or issues. I want to note here, however, clear distinctions that formed within the larger movement along three specific lines: opposition to nuclear weapons, nuclear energy, and nuclear war. While these are not the only lines of distinction that could be drawn, this division does provide us with one lens for complicating the idea of cohesiveness within the movement in general. Within each of these categories, the approaches to fighting nuclear technologies were multifaceted: these included, for example, grassroots activism, formation of local, national, and international organizations, efforts to change nuclear policy by lobbyists, politicians, and policy writers, and more. Even within these sm aller groups, factions existed. Although they shared common goals, the individuals and groups involved in anti nuclear protests had different ideas about how to attain them. As Robert Ehrlich noted in Waging Nuclear Peace, a major division within the move ment was over civil disobedience ( Ehrlich 1985, 25).13 Many favored civil disobedience, believing that it “[would] cause the conscience of the public to recognize the innate justice of the protesters’ cause, just as in the case of the civil rights movement” (Ehrlich 1985, 25). But even within groups that did condone civil disobedience, there were disagreements about the definition, 13 It is important to note that this divergence was validated by statements of several of my interviewees during the course of my research. Many of them also reiterated that we cannot think of the anti nuclear movement as cohesive: instead, they insisted that in order to truly understand the movement we must understand the distinctions between different groups, their goals, and their accomplishments.

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70 and whether any violence could, or should, be deployed. Some adopted the teachings and legacies of non violence, following the traditions of Martin Luther King, Jr. and Mahatma Gandhi. They held that violence of any kind, including endangerment to life or property destruction, would not be condoned. Others believed that civil disobedience should include more radical tactics, inclu ding trespassing, blockades, monkeywrenching, and property destruction, and felt that “people [would] have to be arrested in large numbers before the desired changes [could] be brought about” (Ehrlich 1985, 25). Those who did not condone civil disobedience generally argued that most people subscribed to the goals of the movement, but “might be isolated by such tactics” (Ehrlich 1985, 25). Moreover, as one of my interviewees mentioned (though not for attribution to her) some thought that civil disobedience i nspired people to act out without knowing the full extent of the potential effects (felony charges, or even death) and that it also alienated people from the movement, which was counterintuitive to its growth and success. In this section, I seek to overtu rn impressions that the anti nuclear movement was cohesive and united. This is not intended to provide an exhaustive history; rather, my intent is to show the breadth and diversity of issues, organizations, and responses involved. Moreover, I look specific ally at the role women’s, minority, and religious groups and organizations played in these three areas. Nuclear Weapons The anti nuclear movement began with debates about nuclear weapons testing and policy. Between 1945 and 1996, when the Comprehensive Nuclear Test Ban Treaty was adopted by the United Nations General Assembly, there were over 2,000 nuclear tests conducted a round the

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71 world.14 The United States was responsible for more than half of the 1,032 nuclear explosions between 1945 and 1992 (see “World Overview” n.d.)15. Even before the completion of the bomb, debates arose within the scientific community about the saf ety of nuclear weapons. Byron S. Miller wrote in 1948 that: As early as 1943 the scientists [of the Manhattan project] began writing and circulating papers covering such topics as the destructive capacity of the bomb, possible national and international political consequences of its use, and possible peacetime uses of atomic energy . ( Miller 1948, 801) Many scientists were concerned with the ethical implications of creating such a destructive weapon, and others were mindful of the need to prepare the genera l public for its unprecedented development. After the bombings of Hiroshima and Nagasaki, debates began about who would be in control of nuclear weapons in the United States. In large part, the debate was facilitated by the scientific community. Alice Kimb all Smith showed that “the initial impetus to the political action by scientists that followed World War II came from within the Manhattan Project: from Los Alamos and from two laboratories of the Metallurgical Project – the Clifton Labs at Oak Ridge and th e Met Lab at the University of Chicago” ( Smith 1978, 24; see also, Smith 1965).16 The bombings of Japan, Smith continued, engendered: widespread resolve by scientists to inform themselves, the policy makers, and the American public of the facts and implic ations of atomic energy so that 14 The treaty would enforce a global ban on all nucl ear testing. A total of forty four countries must sign the treaty before it goes into effect. As of 2020, thirtysix nations have ratified the treaty. The United States is among the eight that have not yet done so. See “Comprehensive Nuclear Test Ban Treat y” (n.d. ) . 15 A total of 126 of these bombs were detonated at the Nevada Nuclear Test Site over the course of a twelveyear period between 1951 and 1963 (Gallagher 1993). In American Ground Zero : The Secret Nuclear War , Carole Galla g her revealed the untold stories of the Nevada Test Site workers and “downwinders ,” or individuals exposed to radioactive nuclear fallout from the Nevada tests (1993). See also Butigan ( 2003) for an overview of Nevada Desert Experiences (NDE), a Franciscan based, non profit organization that has employed non violent, direct action protests at the gates of the Nevada Test Site since 1982. 16 The Metallurgical Project was run by Arthur H. Compton and was part of the broader effort to create the atomic bomb. Specifically, the project worked to understand the chemical nature of Plutonium, and how it would behave in large scale nuclear reactions.

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72 effective international controls might be established. In due course, this resolve focused on four issues: 1) the way the bomb had been used on Japan; 2) the right of scientists to make public statements on policy questions; 3) whether civilians or the military should control domestic programs; and 4) the freedom of scientific research . (Smith 1978, 24) In response to the question of who would control nuclear weapons, the United States Department of War proposed the May Johnson Bill in October 1945. The bill would ensure that the United States government would have unilateral control over nuclear weapons (including storage, development, and use) and future atomic energy research and development. On 3 October 1945 President Harry S. Truman spoke in favor of the bill in a special address to Congress, and “advocated [its] speedy passage” (U nited States Department of Energy 2020). However, many of the scientists involved in the Manhattan Project had misgivings about full governmental control. For example, University of Chicago Professor of Law, Edward Levi, spoke on behalf of atomic scientists and urged legislators to reject the bill because government and military control “would constitute a judgement as to how research can be best carried out” (Atomic Heritage Foundation 2016). Harold Urey, winner of the 1934 Nobel Peace Prize for his work on isotopes and one of the lead chemists in the development of the atom bomb, called the MayJohnson B ill “the first totalitarian bill ever written by Congress” (“Dr Urey Excoriates Atom Bill” 1945). Miller wrote that “no sooner was the bill introduced than there rose from atomic scientists throughout the nation an avalanche of outraged criticism” (Mill er 1948, 804). In October, scientists from independent organizations around the country descended on Washington to oppose the MayJohnson Bill.17 On 30 November 1945, they created the Federation of Atomic Sciences (renamed the Federation of American Scient ists, henceforth FAS, in 1946), and issued a 17 For more details about the scientists’ contention to this issue, and about the events leading up to the meeting in Washington see Smith ( 1978: 25 2 6 ) .

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73 statement calling for “a system of international control and cooperationto safeguard world peace” and “a domestic policy on the control and development of atomic energy” (“Statement of the Federation of Atomic Scientists” 1945). On their website, the FAS stated that they are “ devoted to the belief that scientists, engineers, and other technically trained people have the ethical obligation to ensure that the technological fruits of their intellect and labor are a pplied to the benefit of humankind” (Federation of American Scientists 2020). FAS began working with democratic senator Brien McMahon to develop an alternative to the May Johnson B ill. McMahon was, at that time, serving as the chairman of the Senate’s Spec ial Committee on Atomic Energy. Together, FAS and McMahon developed what became known as the McMahon Bill and introduced it in Congress on 20 December 1945. Bill S. 1717 proposed the development of the Atomic Energy Commission, which would allocate development, regulation, and oversite to citizen, rather than military, control (Congress 1945). Despite numerous changes, and a final attempt to “kill the bill on the ground that continued control by the War Department was essential to the nation’s safety” (Mill er 1948, 814) t he bill was signed into law by President Harry Truman on 1 August 1946 as the Atomic Energy Act of 1946. 18 Early civilian protests against nuclear weapons also began in the United States in 1946, though they were small. It was not until ove r a decade later that reasearch began to show the detrimental effects and human health risks associated with radioactive fallout from atmospheric nuclear weapons testing and citizens became more widely involved in measures to stop it. In 1958, citizens in St. Louis, Missouri organized the Greater St. Louis Citizen’s Committee for Nuclear Information (CNI). Inspired by Dr. Herman M. Klacker’s suggestion that “primary 18 For a detailed overview of the events leading up to the passing of the Atomic Energy Act of 1946, see Miller ( 1948) .

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74 teethmight provide valuable information as to the absorbtion of radioactive elements by the body” and his call for an International Milk Teeth Radiation Census to “ contribute important information concerning the amount and kind of radiation received by the most sensitive section of any population, namely, the children,” CNI initiated the Baby To oth Survey (“St. Louis Baby Tooth Survey, 19591970” 2009). Supported by the Canada based women’s organization Voice of Women for Peace, which was led by Dr. Louise Reiss, they collected nearly 300,000 primary teeth by 1970 and “found that the radioactive strontium 90 levels in the baby teeth of children born from 1945 to 1965 had risen 100fold and that the level of strontium90 rose and fell in correlation with atomic bomb tests ” (“St. Louis Baby Tooth Survey, 19591970” 2009). These tests also “showed an alarming rise in the percentage of underweight live births and childhood cancer” (“St. Louis Baby Tooth Survey, 19591970” 2009) and helped contribute to the success of the 1963 Partial Test Ban Treaty (PTBT), which banned atmospheric nuclear testing but allowed for continued underground nuclear testing (“St. Louis Baby Tooth Survey, 19591970” 2009; "1 July 1946 'Test Able ’ , Bikini Atoll" 2020). During the 1960s, the United States built an arsenal of Minuteman intercontinental ballistic missiles (ICB M s), and stored them in missile silos, buried underground throughout the mid western United States (Heefner 2012). In The Missile Next Door, Gretchen Heefner detailed civilian protests in this region to nuclear weapons production and storage, observing that “in rural areas that lacked leftist traditions and organizations, religious rationals and institutions were critical in motivating protests” (Heefner 2012, 158). “Antimissile activists,” she continued, “understood their protest not as part of the progress ive politics of American liberalism, but as an act of personal, redemptive suffering” ( Heefner 2012, 158). But these actions were “rooted in the day to day”: local activists did not “intend to put themselves in prison for years [and] did not

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75 deface governt ment property ,” and “their small acts of protest were generally treated as local affairs” (Heefner 2012, 160). The 1979 proposal by President Jimmy Carter to build the “most powerful American ballistic missle yet designed,” known as the MX missile, inspir ed great controversy about nuclear weapons production in the United States (Glass 1993, 1).19 The proposed location for this missile system was in the Great Basin of Utah and Nevada. But citizen protests against the MX missile were widespread, and importan tly included a number of religious groups as well as Shoshone peoples. The Catholic Workers Movement was founded by Dorothy Day in 1933. In his brief introduction to the movement, Tom Cornell wrote that Catholic Workers are “motivated by the teachings of Jesusto bring about” as the Catholic worker mission states, a “‘new society within the shell of the old, a society in which it will be easier to be good’” (Cornell n.d.). “A society in tune with these teachings,” he continued, “would have no place for economic exploitation or war, for racial, gender or religious discrimination, but would be marked by a cooperative social order without extremes of wealth and poverty and a nonviolent approach to legitimate defense and conflict resolution” (Cornell n.d.). 20 As early as 1952, Catholic Workers became involved in protests against nuclear weapons testing in Nevada. The United States De pa rtment of Energy recorded that: On June 17, [1952] a lone picketer, an associate editor for the New York based Catholic Worker, appeared at the AEC [Atomic Energy Commission]in Las Vegas. The picketer, who was engaging in a thirteenday fast, carried a large sign headed “ Stop Atomic Tests!” and containing quotations from Pope Pius XII . (United States Department of Energy 2006, 164) 19 For a detailed historical account of the controversy around the MX missile, see Glass ( 1993) . For a good overview of the beginning of the MX missile, see Firmage ( 2004, 20 2 6 ) . 20 For a more comprehensive history of the Catholic Worker’s Movement see Zwick and Zwick ( 2005 ) .

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76 Later that year, thirty protestors “composed primarily of Quakers, university students, and peace workers” protested a nuclear test scheduled in “‘hollow mockery’” of the Japanese bombings, between August 6th and 9th (United States Department of En ergy 2006, 164). In an act of civil disobedience, eleven of the protestors “crossed over onto the test site and were arrested, charged convicted, and given one year suspended sentences, with the understanding that there would be no more attempted entries” (United States Department of Energy 2006, 164). Widespread religious opposition around the development of the MX began in 1981, though it was not without its own challenges. As Glass showed, religious groups were often at odds because of the economic opportunities and jobs provided by production processes. In Catholic religious orders, he wrote, “there seemed a wide gap between Catholic social teaching and what most Catholics perceived as the necessities of life in modern times, where opportunity for employment outweighs many other considerations” ( Glass 1993, 67). Other problems abounded. At the Franciscan Center run by Barry Stenger, “contributorsuncomfortable with the MX work, threatened the loss of funds” ( Glass 1993, 67). In Las Vegas: Catholics still saw themselves as newcomers in a relatively new city[and because] Clark County held the largest number of MX supporters in the entire region, it was difficult for the church to counter the intense prodevelopment politics that had shaped postwar Las Vegas. ( Glass 1993, 67) Despite these challenges, “twenty six of the thirtyseven [Catholic] priests in southern Nevada” came together on April 2, 1981 and spoke out against the use of the MX missile (Glass 1993, 67). Others from various religious groups, including the Fransicians, the Church of Latter day Saints, and Protestants followed suit, with most support coming from outside the Great Basin ( Glass 1993, 6768). Others have also pointed to the role of religious groups and individuals in spe aking out against the MX. Robert Jay Lifton mentioned the “increasing number of spiritual leaders and array of denominational backgroundsspeaking outon the pernicious nature of

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77 nuclear weapons[and] in strong support of individuals who stand apart from t he state in a posture of resistance” during this time period (Lifton 1982, 263). In “MX: Democracy, Religion, and the Rule of Law – My Journey,” Edwin B. Firmage, the cofounder of Utahns United, also spoke to the role of religious organizations in the fight against the MX, thanking those who otherwise “may not receive their proper due” ( Firmage 2004 , 17). Among these, he noted “at the top of [his] list and [his] story” are “the women of Roman Catholicism, the Women Religious, whom [he] watched teach their bishopsRosemary Lynch and Klaryta Antoszewska; Francis Russel of the Franciscans (then in Denver); and Mary Luke Tobin, the great matriarch of the Sisters of Lorettowho was the only woman with speaking privileges at the Second Vatican Council” ( Firmage 2004, 18). Firmage discussed his own role in beginning dialogue between Otis Charles, the Episcopal Bishop of Utah and the Mormon First Presidency, and his work to get Mormon leadership to oppose the Missile ( Firmage 2004, 3335, 38). When Joe Griggs, a resident of Baker, Nevada, began a “travelling road show to undercut the roving air force displays of missiles on wheels” he was provided with financial backing from Clergy and Laity Concerned (CALC), a group made up largely of mainstre am, liberal, Protestants (Glass 1993 , 68). The road show traveled to large cities around the country, and spoke in places of religious worship, protesting the MX missile and the development of nuclear weapons more broadly. Glass showed, however, that “the most consistently voiced religious objections to the MX came from Native Americans ,” specifically the Shoshone (Glass 1993, 68). In 1979, the Western Shoshone Sacred Lands Association publically condemned the MX, on the grounds that they “had a duty to pr otect the homeland given to them by the Creator” (Ofenloch, 2020a ; Glass 1993, 126; see also Western Shoshone Sacred Lands Association 1980). Moreover, Glass showed how

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78 American colonization of Shoshone land and people and American civil religion shaped “c ivic loaylties” ( Glass 1993, 12132). The duty to protect their homeland, Glass argued: frame[d] Shoshone responsibility to land and people as a religious obligation, [and] would have to color any Shoshone effort to translate the term citizenship into tra ditionally meaningful concepts. Within traditional Western Shoshone soceity, social ties focused around the small kin based groups, whose identity often stemmed from maintaining a connection to a particular stream or mountain. ( Glass 1993, 126; see also Mi ller 1983, 72, 75) Zoltn Grossman and John O’Connell have also noted the cooperation between Shoshone and other groups in Nevada, including (respectively) white ranchers and the Church of Latter day Saints (see Grossman 2005; O’Connell 2002, 788 89). P rotests against nuclear weapons testing was also an important impetus for the formation of the environental organization Greenpeace. In 1965, the United States began a series of underground nuclear weapons tests on the island of Amchitka in the Aleutians, a series of islands situated between Russia and Alaska. Protests against the first test in October 1965 were “nonexistent” due to a lack of publicity (Zelko 2013, 66). However, as Frank Zelko has written, the second test on October 2, 1969, “provoked a storm of outrage across Canada and particularly in Vancouver, which was the closest major Canadian city to the blast site” ( Zelko 2013, 66). In part, the protests were inspired by the fear that nuclear detonations could precipitate an earthqauke and produce a tsunami that would directly impact Vancouver ( Zelko 2013 , 66). Despite the “spontaneous coalition” of over 6000 people who “converged on the Douglas Boarder Crossing between British Columbia and Washington State” on the day of the detonation, the resistan ce remained disorganized and disconnected ( Zelko 2013, 6667). In response to the lack of cohesion in the movement, two seasoned protestors, Irving Stowe and Jim Bohlen, came together with the common goal of forming a coalition.

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79 Stowe, along with his wife Dorothy were, as Zelko has written, the “ archetypal activist couple of the McCarthy era – middle class, urban, highly educated, left wing, secular Jews” ( Zelk o 2013 , 12). The Stowe’s joined the Quaker peace movement after the bombing of Japan: Zelko wrote that their involvement was “cultural rather than religiou s” and that they believed the Friend’s meetings “offered a set of values that not only opposed militarism but also presented a structural critique of its causes and a well defined set of protest strategies” ( Zelko 2013, 20). The Stowe’s were well connected members of the peace movement in New England during the 1950s ( Zelko 2013 , 2223). In 1961, due to increasing fear about radioactive fallout from nuclear testing and the percieved risk of nuclear war between the U.S. and the Soviet Union, the Stowe’s fled the United States and moved to New Zealand ( Zelko 2013, 24). When New Zeland entered the Vietnam war in 1966, sending troops to aid American forces, the Stowes were “outraged” that the “long tentacles of U.S. militarismhad again become entangled in their lives, creating a morally intolerable situation” (Zelko 2013, 25). They left New Zealand, settled in Vancouver, and immediately “joined the local antiVietnam War movement” ( Zelko 2013, 26). Soon thereafter they also joined the Committee to Aid American W ar Objectors where they met Jim and Marie Bohlen ( Zelko 2013, 26). Like Stowe, Bohlen found affinity with the non religious elements of Quakerism, though he never formally became a member. Zelko wrote that Bohlen “found the idea of non violent action and the antiwar and antimaterialist messagesvery appealing [and].felt he could admire and learn from the Quakers, even join in their protests, without having to subscribe to all their rituals and beliefs” ( Zelko 2013 , 29). Bohlen met his wife, Marie, at a “Q uaker organized antinuclear testing protest in Philidelphia” and after they married, the Bohlen family moved to Vancouver in 1967 ( Zelko 2013, 3031). They met the Stowes later that year.

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80 Zelko wrote that “the Stowes and the Bohlens gravitated toward a worldview in which salvation resided in international cooperation and mutual understanding rather than military strength and strategic alliances” ( Zelko 2013, 32). They came together to form a coalition that combined direct action with political lobbying, and was focused not only on ending the nuclear arms race but on the detrimental environmental effects of nuclear weapons testing. Together with Paul Cot, a law student at University of British Columbia, they began the protest group Don’t Make A Wave (DMAW) in 1969, and began to organize against the next scheduled bombing, Cannikin ( Zelko 2013, 67 68). Marie Bohlen proposed the idea that DMAW should “sail a protest boat to the Aleutians to bear witness to the blast” in the guise of earlier Sierra Club protest s ( Zelko 2013, 68). During a planning meeting for the protest in 1970, one of the members Bill Darnell “put together the magic words” when he responded to Stowe’s peace sign salutation with the phrase “make it a green peace!” ( Zelko 2013, 69). Green Peace was quickly adopted as the name of the boat, and the organization name Greenpeace was derived shortly thereafter ( Zelko 2013 , 70). Although Greenpeace is perhaps most well known today for their protests against deforstation, whaling, and commercial fishing , and their innovative forms of civil disobedience, the roots of the now global organization lie not only in the anti nuclear weapons movement, but were informed by Quakerism.21 The Plowshares movement was also active in opposition to the production and use of nuclear weapons. The movement was founded by Daniel Berrigan, a Jesuit priest and peace activist, who along with his brother, Philip, had been active in protesting the Vietnam War. Comprised of Christian Pacifists and Christian Anarchists, mostly Catholics, the Plowshares 21 For a comprehensive history of Greenpeace see Zelko ( 2013 ) .

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81 engaged in direct action protests beginning in the 1980s.22 In 1973, Philip Berrigan, along with his wife Elizabeth McAlister, a former nun, founded the Jonah House, a Catholic Worker House in Baltimore, Maryland. Members of Jonah House were also deeply involved in the anti nuclear weapons protests and Plowshares actions. Committed to nonviolence and resistence in the form of “opposition to unjust practices, policies, institutions, and systems,” the members of Jonah House engaged in nonviolent resistence to protest the production and use of nuclear weapons (see “Jonah House:Activism” n.d.).23 Jeffrey D. Brand has written that, although the “number of plows hare activists was small,their work was used to promote other civil disobedient actions and protests towards nuclear weapons [in the U.S.] and abroad” ( Brand 1997, 41). The best known Plowshares action took place in Pennsylvania on September 9, 1980, when eight protestors (known as the “Plowshares Eight”), including the Berrigan brothers, entered the General Electric Space Division complex, “damag[ed] two re entry vehicle nose cones[and] pour[ed] blood on classified blueprints and documents” ( Brand 1997, 45; see also Heefner 2012 , 15859). They were arrested and charged, but many other Plowshare actions followed. As Brand showed, the Plowshares used hammers in a symbolic manner to enact the literal destruction of nuclear missiles, precieved as evil ( Brand 1997, 43). Moreover, the Plowshares were well known for the use of blood in their actions, often spilling it on documents, to symbolize not only the “death and danger created by nuclear weapons” but also the “activists personal sacrifice to the cause” 22 For a comprehensive history of the Plowshares see Nepstad ( 2008) . For more on the Plowshares movement in the nuclear age, see Tobey ( 2016) . See also Rutledge ( 2009 ) for an overview of a 2002 protest enacted by nuns to disarm a missile in Colorado under the Plowshares movement mission. 23 For more information on Jonah House, and the role members played in the Plowshares movement, see Nepstad ( 2008) . For an overview of the affinity group “Spirit ,” which was part of the LAG actions, but “found inspiration fro m Jonah House” see Epstein ( 1991, 134 3 5 ) .

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82 ( Bra nd 1997 , 43). Brand also noted the tendency to carry “the blood in baby bottles to symbolize the innocent children threatened by nuclear weapons” ( Brand 1997, 43). In 2021 at 81 years of age, McAlister continued actively protesting nuclear wapons. As recen tly as April 2018, she and six others now known as the Kings Bay Plowshares (KBP7) entered the Naval Station at Kings Bay, Georgia, armed with “blood, hammers, and crime scene tapeto expose the evil of [the] Trident” II D 5 missiles (O’Neill 2019). For th is act McAlister subsequently served a year and a half in prison, after being sentenced on 8 June 2020 to time served plus three years of supervised release (Ofenloch 2020b). McAlister is known as the “Mother” of the Plowshares Movement, and for her “insightful analysis, Biblical acumen, idefatigable humor, and courageous organizing” (Ofenl och 2020a). The summer of 1983 was also a pivotal moment for women in the protests against nuclear weapons. On 1 August, two thousand women came together in Seneca County, New York to establish the Seneca Women’s Peace Camp.24 The camp was formed in the guise of the Greenham Common Peace camps in England, which began in 1981, and protested NATO’s deployment of the Crusie and Pershing II missiles, which were housed at the nearby Seneca Army Depot (Costello and Stanley 1985). Moreover, the camp “critique[d] the ‘patriarchial society’ that created and used these weapons” (Krasniewicz 1992 , ix). Not long thereafter, a number of other women’s peace camps emerged, including the P uget Sound Women’s Peace Camp in Kent Washington (see Buehler 1985) and several in the United Kingdom. A number of women’s organizations were involved in the Seneca camp, including Women’s International League for Peace and Freedom (WILPF) and Women Strike for Peace (WSP). 24 For a comprehensive overview of the origins and first demonstrations of Seneca Women’s Peace Camp, see Costello and Stanley ( 1985 ) . For a history of the Seneca Peace Camp and the conflicts with the local communi ty see Krasniewicz ( 1992) .

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83 During the late 1970s and early 1980s, the anti nuclear weapons movement tapered off, giving way to the rapid growth of the anti nuclear war movement. There was much overlap between the two movements during that time period, but there is also a critical distinction between the two. Those protests that I have classified as anti nuclear weapons have primarily dealt with the manufacture of particular weapons, or protests around nuclear wapons manufacturing and testing facilities. On the othe r hand, those protests that I have deliniated as anti nuclear war protests have tended to oppose nuclear weapons on a more holistic level and specifically in their association with the arms race and the threat of international nuclear war. Nuclear War On 1 November 1952, the United States detonated the first hydrogen bomb (called “Mike”) on Elugelab Island in the Pacific Ocean (Farby 2015). The hydrogen bomb relies on a fusion of atoms to produce a thermonuclear reaction, is more lightweight than an atomic bomb, and also significantly more powerful. Although the Cold War began between the United States and the Soviet Union in 1947 25 , their race to develop nuclear weapons arsenals accelerated after the first hydrogen bomb test. The “Nuclear Arms Race” led to widespread fear in North America and abroad about the potential threat of global nuclear war. Both sides developed second strike technologies, which ensured that even under attack, they would be able to retaliate against the other nation, leading to Mutually Assured Destruction (MAD). A number of treaties were negotiated during the Cold War, including the Strategic Arms Limitation Talks, or SALT I and SALT II treaties, to limit the number of nuclear weapons that each country could stockpile. 25 Historians disagree about the exact date of the beginning of the Cold War, though the impetus is widely regarded as the Truman Doctrine, which allocated aid to the governments of Greece and Turkey and firmly showed U.S. opposition to Communism, and the U.S. policy “ to support free peoples who are resisting attempted subjugation by armed minorities or by outside pressures” (“The Truman Doctrine, 1947” 201 8 ).

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84 Despite the threat of MAD, tensions continued to rise between the two superpowers, especially during the Cuban Missile Crisis in the 1960s. The first major protest against nuclear war in North America occurred on 1 November 1961, when between 50,000 and 100,000 women from cities across the United States and Canada took to the streets under the slogan “End the Arms Race, Not the Human Race” (Pe terson and Runyan 1993, 126; “ Women Strike for Peace Records, 19611996” 2019). The organization Women Strike for Peace (WSP) 26 was born out of that protest, and was officially founded later that year by Bella Abzug and Dagmar Wilson (“Women Strike for Pea ce” 2018). Peterson and Runyan wrote that, after WWII, “the fact that women – especially white, middle class women – were encouraged to take their role as wives and mothers seriously during the 1950s led some of them into antimilitary movements from the 19 60s through the 1980s” ( Peterson and Runyan 1993, 126). “So threatening” was the 1961 protest “to cold war orthodoxy,” they said, “that in 1962 the House Committee on UnAmerican Activities accused leaders of this grassroots women’s movement [WSP] of bein g Communists” ( Peterson and Runyan 1993, 126; see also Strange 1990, 215). Other women’s groups were also involved in the anti nuclear war movement. On 17 November 1980, two thousand women marched on the Pentagon in protest to the ongoing threat of the nuclear arms race and nuclear war (Phelps 2014 , 339). The group, Women’s Pentagon Action (WPA) “identified themselves as ecofeminists” and advanced what Wesley G. Phelps called a “feminist critique of the Cold War nuclear arms race” which connected the feminist and anti nuclear movements ( Phelps 2014, 340). Phelps argued against other historians including 26 Amy Swerdlow has written in detail about the WSP movement in Women St rike for Peace: Traditional Motherhood and Radical Politics in the 1960s (1993) .

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85 John Lewis Gladdis (1992) and John Lofland (1993), to show that there was a “radical” edge to the anti nuclear movement during the 1980s. Specifically, he said that “ ‘ because the Reagan administration abruptly reversed the political influence of the feminist movement’ the most obvious place to find radicalism in Reagan’s Americais within the feminist movement” (Phelps 2014, 342; quoting from Evans 2010, 17677). Phelps showed that many of these women were brought together by an ecofeminist conference organized by Ynestra King that was held in Amherst in March of 1980 (Phelps 2014, 344). 27 Grace Paley, who was present at the ecofeminist conference, went o n to author the Unity Statement for WPA, where she stated that “there is fear among the people, and that fear, created by the industrial militarists, is used as an excuse to accelerate the arms race" ( Paley 2008 [1983] , 462). Plaey wrote in detail about “w hat women want” bridging the gap between the feminist movement and the anti nuclear movement. Among those desires, Paley said: We think this freedom should be available to poor women, as it always has been to the rich. We want to be free to love whomever w e choose. We will live with women or with men or we will live alone. We will not allow the oppression of lesbians. One sex or one sexual preference must not dominate another. We want to see the pathology of racism ended in our time. It has been the imperi al arrogance of white male power that has separated us from the suffering and wisdom of our sisters in Asia, Africa, South America, and in our own country. We want an end to the arms race. No more bombs. No more amazing inventions for death . ( Paley 2008 [ 1983] , 463) A number of other women’s organization geared toward protesting nuclear war, while advocating the end of the arms race, peace, and nuclear nonproliferation, were developed between the 1960s and the 1980s. Among the most prominent were Canadian Voice of Women for Peace (VOW) and Women’s Action for New Directions (WAND). 27 King has written about the connections between ecofeminism and nuclear war/weapons in “The Ecology of Feminism and the Feminism of Ecology” (1989).

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86 Canadian VOW was founded in 1960 and was originally established as a “feminist group committed to the abolition of nuclear weapons” (“Canadian Voice of Women for Peace” n.d.). G aining over 6000 members in its first year, VOW took a feminist stance and privileged women’s voices, as they supported the Test Ban Treaty of 1963 and joined NATO Women’s Peace Force in 1964 (Macpherson and Good 1987). However, in the face of the growing threat of nuclear war, they transitioned from “an initial emphasis on nuclear disarmament to the abolition of nuclear war” and were active in the North American protests against nuclear war throughout the 1980s (“Canadian Voice of Women for Peace” n.d.). WAND was founded in 1982 by Helen Caldicott. On their website in 2020, WAND provided a brief history of their organization, and noted that although they began in an “attempt to bring women into the discussion about nuclear weapons the demand was great: th ousands upon thousands of outraged U.S. citizens believed that the very future of the planet was being threatened by the nuclear arms race” (Sheldon 2020). In 1985, WAND opened its office in Washington, D.C. and since that time has worked to lobby against nuclear war and nuclear weapons as part of the “peace and security community on Capitol Hill” (Sheldon 2020). The overview continued that WAND has become “firmly established in both the peace and women’s communities” (Sheldon 2020), focusing especially on federal laws and foreign policies. The largest protests to nuclear war came during the 1980s from the Nuclear Freeze campaign. During the run up to the 1980 election, presidential hopeful Ronald Reagan advanced a hard line, pronuclear policy, denounced t he SALT II treaty28, and sought to expand the United States nuclear weapons arsenal. Growing public concern about nuclear war, however, coupled 28 Signed in 1979 by United States President Jimmy Carter and General Secretary Leonid Brezhnev of the Sovi et Union.

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87 with the end of the dtente period 29 fostered widespread support of what came to be known as the Nuclear Freeze Campaign. First envisioned in 1979 by Randall Forsberg, the Nuclear Freeze movement called for the “bilateral freeze on the testing, production, and deployment of new nuclear weapons” for the United States and the Soviet Union (Hogan 1994, 1; Forsberg 1980). 30 As Forsberg put it in 1982: the freeze goes beyond other arms control measures proposed in the past 25 years. By the same simplicity that has given it wide popular appeal the freeze proposal responds directly to the ominous turn in the arms race . (Forsberg 1982, 52) The Freeze Resolution made it to Congress in the fall of 1979, but did not pass until 4 May 1983, when it was voted through in the U.S. House of Representatives with a “bi partisan majority of 278149” (Feighan 1983 , 30, 52). 31 On 12 June 1982, approximately one million people gathered in Central Park in New York City in “the largest political demonstration in American History” (Hogan 1994, 28). But despite the appearance of a united front, there were fracturs within the movement that spoke to varied interests and concerns. J. Michael Hogan noted the “splintering of the freeze coalition” and said that “some hoped to focus narrowly upon the freeze while others preferred to emphasize disarmament and domestic social issues” and “arguably signaled the beginning of the end for the freeze as a peace movement issue” ( Hogan 1994, 28). In the beginning, however, the Freeze garnered immediate support, especially from grassroots organizations and religious communities. L. Bruce van Voorst wrote in 1983 that: 29 A period of reduced tensions between the United States and the Soviet Union that began in the early 1970s when President Richard Nixon and General Secretary Leonid Brezhnev negotiated and approved the Salt I treaty. This period ended, according to most historians, with the election of Reagan because of his nuclear policy. 30 For a detailed historical overview that speaks to the state of the U.S. political climate, nuclear weapons and national security concerns, the history of the Nuclear Freeze in Congress, and the response from the American public see Cole and Taylor ( 1983) . 31 For a detailed history of the Freeze Resolution in Congress, see Feighan ( 1983 ) and Waller ( 1987 ) .

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88 with the exception only of the Quakers and other small historic “ peace” churches, all congregations in America – Catholic, Protestant, and Jewish – have historically supported the nation’s readiness to engage in war. Thus it comes as somethi ng of a surprise now to see the nation’s churches now edging toward a direct confrontation with the Administration over nuclear weapons and deterrence policy. ( van Voorst 1983, 82728) Van Voorst detailed the engagement of U.S. churches in the debate, inc luding the National Conference of Catholic Bishops Pastoral Letter on War and Peace (National Conference of Catholic Bishops 1983) which he called “the most radical effort by any American church to define moral standards for the nuclear era” (van Voorst 19 83, 831). Hogan noted, however, that the “pastoral letter also dissociated the bishops’ efforts from secular peace movements” and argued that the role of Catholics should in no way be seen as either “leaders of a revolutionary social movement” or the producers of a “manifesto of the nuclear freeze campaign” (Hogan 1994, 99). The Protestant response began early, van Voorst showed, with an original statement coming in 1946 that expressed “penitence” on the part of “American Christians” for the “irresponsible useof the atomic bomb” on Hiroshima and Nagasaki (van Voorst 1983, 839; The Calhoun Commission 1946). With the “conspicuous exception [of]fundamentalist denominations” most spoke out, or issued statements against, nuclear war (van Voorst 1983, 841). More over, in the Jewish community, the Reform Union of American Hebrew Congregations: which represents about one third of all American Jews, unanimously accepted a resolution appealing to all nuclear powers “ to mutually agree upon a freeze on the testing ” of systems and went a step further by supporting the verifiable 50 percent across the board cut in nuclear stockpiles . (van Voorst 1983 , 843)

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89 Judith A. Dwyer also wrote about “The Role of American Churches in the Nuclear Weapons Debate” and logged and analyzed the statements of the Episcopalian, Lutheran, Methodist, Baptist, and Presbyter ian denominations (1983). She noted, among other things, that: While no Church statement condemns the use of all nuclear weapons as intrinsically evil, all pronouncements seek to limit nuclear warfare in some way. The use of strategic weapons against civil ian populations is an action which the Lutheran, Episcopalian, and Roman Catholic statements rigorously condemn. The Lutheran and Roman Catholic Churches further warn against certain disproportionate issues of force which would violate principles of justic e. On the issue of deterrence, the Lutheran and Roman Catholic statements are carefully nuanced; both denominations recognize the dangers of possession and acknowledge the sinful situation which necessitates the current weapons balance. ( Dwyer 1983, 83) Practitioners of Buddhism in the West also played an important role in the peace movement in the United States in the 1970s and 80s. In 1978, a Zen Buddhist teacher from Hawaii, Robert Aitken Roshi, facilitated the engagement of several Buddhists from th e west coast to form a “Buddhist Chapter of the International Fellowship of Reconciliation (IFOR), an ecumenical federation of religious pacifists around the world” (Hughes 1987 , 457). The Buddhist Peace Federation (BPF), as it was called, grew to include thousands of practitioners from around the globe, and from all the various sects of Buddhism. Thich Nhat Hanh, a well known Vietnamese monk, was on the international board of advisors for the organization. His writing and his opposition to American militar ism and nuclear weapons technologies was especially influential in the BPF movement (Hughes 1987, 458). Joanna Macy, who is one of the subjects of Chapter 7 , was also engaged in the BPF movement ( Hughes 1987, 458). Poet and Buddhist practitioner Gary Snyde r was too; he has continued to be outspoken about his opposition to nuclear technologies. At the Ojai Poetry Festival in 2007, for instance, Snyder critiqued nuclear

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90 power facilities and called out Stewart Brand (who founded the Co Evolution Quarterly) for his support of nuclear power technologies (Stolz 2007). 32 Support of the freeze resolution also came from religious organizations. In 1979, Rabbi Leonard I. Beerman and Reverend George Regas co founded the Interfaith Center to Reverse the Arms Race. Beerman was the founding Rabbi of Leo Baeck Temple in Los Angele s, California and a devoted human rights and peace activist (“ The Leonard I. Beerman Foundation for Peace and Justice” n.d.). Regas was a priest and rector of All Saints Episcopal Church in Pasadena, California. The two brought together a number of religio us leaders, as well as prominent Hollywood producers and Los Angeles industrialists, to create the center, which “awakened religious leaders and, through them, their congregations, to the realization that the abolition of nuclear weapons is a profoundly mo ral issue” (“The Leonard I. Beerman Foundation for Peace and Justice” n.d.). One of the most influential members of the Interfaith Center, and a comrade to Beerman and Regas, was William Sloane Coffin, Jr. He served as Chaplain of Yale University from 1958 to 1975 and became the senior minister of Riverside Church in Manhattan, New York in 1977. Coffin was active as a leader in the civil rights and peace movements and served as president of SANE: The Committee for a Sane Nuclear Policy (re named Peace Actio n in 1993) beginning in 1987. The Freeze movement marked a clear boundary in the debate on nuclear war and the proliferation of nuclear weapons for most religious institutions in the United States. Moreover, the engagement of religious institutions spurre d widespread support of the movement by 32 In his 2009 book, Whole Earth Discipline: And Ecopragmatist Manifsto , Brand labled himself an “ environmental heretic ” because of his pro nuclear agenda, among other controversial positions he advocated in the name of environmentalism.

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91 religious individuals across the country leading, at least in part, to the pressure the movement put upon policymakers. Nuclear Energy The protests that I have defined as associated with “nuclear energy” primarily in clude those focused around the production of nuclear power, including the mining of uranium needed for the production process, and in the long term storage of the bi products of nuclear power, nuclear waste. In 1954, the United States Congress amended the Atomic Energy Act to allow for more widespread development of nuclear power, thus expanding production capabilities to private corporations (United States Congress 1954). The development of corporate nuclear power plants began more broadly in 1957 after th e passage of The Price Anderson Act, an amendment to the Atomic Energy Act that provides liability coverege for licensed opperators of nuclear power facilities in the event of an accident (Center for Nuclear Science and Technology Information 2005). The ma in goals of protests against nuclear power facilities were to “prevent the completion of nuclear power plants already under construction, to prevent work from beginning on planned projects, and ultimately, to shut down existing nuclear facilities” (Kitsche lt 1986, 60). Michael D. Mehta has written that opposition to nuclear power began in 1957 with protests against the Fermi I Nuclear Power Plant in Detroit, Mic higan by the United Auto Workers Union ( Mehta 2005, 35). However, the first large scale demonstr ation against nuclear power was held almost two decades later, when citizens came together to protest Seabrook Nuclear Power Plant in New England in 1978 (Kitschelt 1986, 72). Danielle Poe noted that the town had voted in opposition to the facility three t imes ( Poe 2010: 68). Despite their protests, however, construction began in 1977. On 30 April 1977 the Clamshell Alliance facilitated a

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92 protest that boasted over 2000 participants, over 1,400 of whom were arrested. Despite continued protests, the plant came online in 1986. Less than a year after the Seabrook protest, on 28 March 1979, the Three Mile Island Nuclear Power Plant in Harrisburg, Pennsylvania experienced a partial meltdown of one of the nuclear reactors which subsequently caused a leak of radioa ctive nuclear waste into the surrounding environment. This incident further supported the concerns of anti nuclear power activists, who redoubled their efforts to stop nuclear power production. Two major protests happened in response, drawing some of the l argest crowds of any anti nuclear protests throughout the movement. Over 65,000 protestors marched on Washington, D.C. on 6 May 1979, with “tunderous chants of ‘No More Harrisburgs’” and demanding “an end to U.S. dependence on nuclear energy” (Valentine and Baker 1979). During the protest, Jane Fonda’s husband, the noted anti war activist and eventually, California politician Tom Hayden, notably remarked that President Carter’s “‘nuclear energy mentality’[was] ‘eclipsing and destroying his Christian’ philo sophy” (Valentine and Baker 1979).33 In a provacative display, activists including Helen Caldicott and former U.S. Representative, Bella Abzug, carried a black coffin down Pennsylvania Avenue “filled with ‘dead’ babies” (Valentine and Baker 1979).34 Just a few months later, on 23 September 1979, over 200,000 thousand people gathered in New York to protest nuclear power (see Herman 1979). Jane Fonda announced during the program that she 33 Hayden was an outspoken political activist against the Vietnam war and proponent of the Civil Rights movement of the 1960s. He was tried and prosecuted in Illinois as one of the Chicago Eight for conspiracy and anti Vietnam protests during the 1968 Democratic National Convention, which was he ld there. He went on to become a politician, serving in the California legislature for eighteen years and was instrumental in founding The Peace and Justice Resource Center (PJRC). For more on Hayden and PJRC see “Tom Hayden: The Peace & Justice Resource C enter” ( 2013) . 34 Caldicott spoke of this action in my interview with her in 2020 and in email correspondence in 2021. She said, however, that it was Dr. Benjamin Spock, and not Bella Abzug, who carried the black coffin alongside her. She also documented t his event in her memoir and wrote there as well that it was Dr. Benjamin Spock who carried the coffin (see Caldicott 1997, 176).

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93 and her husband would begin a “32 day, 50city tour[to] urge local gove rnments to undertake programs of conversion to renewable sources of energy” (Herman 1979). Though there were large mass protests in opposition to nuclear power, in general the movement grew out of “localized, segmented conflicts about specific power plants into national movements and controversies” (Kitschelt 1986, 60). Among those localized movements, several were facilitated by women, people of color , or religious groups and organization. Among the most well documented, is the Mothers for Peace organization, which was formed in 1969, and continues to protest the Diablo Canyon Nuclear Power Plant near San Luis Obispo, California (see Wills 2006). Made up primarily of women, the organization has “been the leagal intervenor for over four decades of controversy concering the construction, licenscing, and operation of the plant” ( “ Mothers for Peace” n.d.). One of the largest problems with nuclear power, however, is that historically the mines and sites needed for them have disporporitonately impacted Native American communities, people of color, and communities of lower socio economic status (see Runyan 2018; Kyne and Bolin 2016) . Moreover, more than protests against nuclear weapons and nuclear war, which largely ebbed after the 1980s and the end of the cold war, protests against nuclear power and nuclear waste have continued into the 21st century. One such example is the Bruce Nuclear Power Developmen (BNPD), which was built on the banks of Lake Huron in Ontario in 1970, notably on Saugeen Ojibway Nat ion (SON) ancestral lands. It was rebranded the Bruce Nuclear Generating Station and continues to operate as of this writing in 202 1 . There have been many debates over the years between SON and Bruce Nuclear, including about expansion, use of tribal lands, and impacts to the local environment and community. Most recently, however, were two debates over the renewed operation of the plant and a proposal for a deep geological repository for the storage of nuclear waste. In a presentation

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94 to the Canadian Nuclea r Safety Commission in May 2018, SON “strongly disagreed” with the Bruce Power proposal for a refurbishment project, which would effectively “double the lifespan of the facility[and] extend the duration of impacts for over 50 years includingongoing gener ation of nuclear wastes, and the risk of releases, accidents, and malfunctions” (Saugeen Ojibway Nation 2018, 1). Moreover, in January of 2020, SON voted down a proposal to “host a deep geological repository” for the storage of nuclear waste on the Bruce N uclear site, by a vote of 1,232 to 170 (Bell 2020). Another example of ongoing resistance to Nuclear Power is related to the Vogtle Power Plant in Burke County, Georgia. In 2010, the Department of Energy (DOE) endorsed the construction of two new nuclear reactors at the Vogtle plant, the first new nuclear reactors built in the United States in over thirty years. Protests around the plant erupted and expressed specific concerns about environmental injustice and environmental racism. The surrounding communit ies in Burke County and Shell Bluff, Georgia, have been predominately black and low income. Moreover, in addition to the Vogtle Plant, the community is located just across from the Savannah River Site, which is now classified by the Environmental Protection Agency (EPA) as a Superfund site – meaning that it is considered one of the “most contaminated” landscapes in the United States (“Environmental racismShell Bluff, GA? ” 2012; “Superfund” 2020). In 2010, the DOE “falsely reported to Congress that funds [had] been provided to Georgia for radiation monitoring since 2004,” but Georgia’s Women’s Action for New Directions (WAND) found that no funds had been provided “since 2003” (“Environmental racism Shell Bluff, GA? ” 2012). In 2016, Dr. Gene Rhodes, the Direc tor of the Savannah River Ecology Laboratory, partnered with WAND to investigate radiological contamination and increasing reports of cancer in the Shell Bluff community (Stutsman 2016). In 2017, Becky Rafter from Georgia WAND,

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95 Mary Olson from NIRS, and Jumana Master from Agnes Scott College, came together to conduct a report that “examined the intersections of climate change, the nuclear energy and weapons industries, and the subsequent effects on rural communities” ( Rafter, Olson, and Master 2017, 4). Among other things, they warned that global climate change and a corresponding increasing risk of major natural disasters poses a growing threat in the south, because it is the hub of nuclear power in the United States ( Rafter, Olson, and Master 2017). Despit e ongoning protests, as of September 2020, the new nuclear reactors were still under construction. These are just two of a number of examples of issues that activists argue exemplify environmental injustice related to nuclear power in North America. In addition to nuclear power, there are also concerns about the long term storage of radioactive nuclear waste, and the disporportionate effects of nuclear waste storage, specifically on indigenous communities. In 1987, Congress officially created the Office of Nuclear Waste Negotiator, and in 1990, formally appointed David Leroy as its first negotiator (Kamps 2005). The office represented an “effort to open a federal ‘Monitored Retrievable Storage’ (MRS) site for the interim storage of highlevel nuclear waste” (Kamps 2005). The proposed storage sites included Native American tribal lands and, as Mary Olson (whom I will discuss in more detail in Chapter 6) said, “when no states wanted to get involved . . . the government offered bribe level money to tribes” to get them to accept the waste. The monies offered promised each “applicant $100,000 to ‘investigate and learn’ about the technical aspects of high level atomic waste storage” (Kamps 2005). In a briefing published in 2001, Kevin Kamps, the Nuclear Waste Speci alist at Nuclear Information Resource Services (NIRS) called the issue “Radioactive Racism” (Kamps 2001). The effect, he said, was that “low income and minority communities [were] disproportionately targeted with facilities and wastes that have significant and adverse

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96 human health and environmental effects . . . [placing] the burdens of society on those who are most vulnerable” (Kamps 2005). In 1992, twenty tribes applied for MRS grants from the federal government, and seventeen were approved (Kamps 2005). Well known Native American rights and environmental activist Grace Thorpe (1921 2008) became involved and, along with Mary Olson of NIRS, began the No Nuclear Waste on Indian Lands Project. By September 1992, all but five tribes had returned the money to the federal government (Kamps 2005).35 One of the holdouts was the Mescalero Apache tribe in New Mexico. In 1994, one of the tribe’s members, Rufina Laws, founded Humans Against Nuclear Waste Dumping (HANDS), and eventually ran for tribal chairman, though she was defeated by the incumbent.36 In 1995, the Mescalero Apache held a tribal vote on the proposed MRS site. Kamps said “the Mescalero Apaches vote[d] 490 to 362 to reject the wastestorage site. Mescalero WasteStorage project manager Silas Cochise [said] the project was defeated by elderly tribal members, apparently unwilling to risk their grandchildren’s future” (K amps 2005). In 1987, the United States Congress passed the Nuclear Waste Policy Act which established Yucca Mountain, in Eureka County, Nevada, as a nuclear waste repository, intended for the longterm storage of spent nuclear fuel (see Summary of the Nuclear Waste Po licy Act 2019 [ 1982] ). Yucca Mountain lies on Western Shoshone treaty lands and has been highly opposed by the Western Shoshone on the grounds that the United States government does not own these lands, and because the landscape is considered sacred to the Western Shoshone 35 See also LaDuke ( 1999, 103 10 6). 36 For more information see pages 181 82 in this document.

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97 peoples. Ian Zabarte, the Principal Man for the Western Bands of the Shoshone Nation wrote in 2010 that: To the Western Shoshone people Yucca Mountain is part of a seamless scared landscape known in the Shoshone language as, Newe Sogobia.Used together, Newe Sogobia is the political, social, cultural and spiritual embodiment of Western Shoshone people and land as a nation. There is no separation of church and state. The Western Shoshone people share a common ethnic identity that accounts f or their continued struggle for political, social, economic and environmental justice against the threats, hazards and risks the US forces upon Newe Sogobia . (Zabarte 2010) Yucca mountain has been one of the most highly contested nuclear sites in the Unit ed States since the 1980s. Although federal funding for the project ended in 2011, renewed efforts by the Trump administration in 2018 and 2019 to revive the project prompted renewed protests and opposition to the site. As of 2021, no federal funding has been allocated to continue the project. Another major concern within the anti nuclear movement has been the mining of Uranium, which is used for fuel in the creation of nuclear power. Uranium mining began in the United States around the turn of the 20th century in the desert southwest, mostly in Arizona, Utah, New Mexico, and Colorado, and mostly on Navajo Tribal Lands (see Voyles 2015). Today, uranium mining operations exist throughout the United States and Canada, as well as abroad in Australia, Kazakhs tan, Niger, and elsewhere. In 2007, the Frontenac Ventures Development Corporation was granted permission to begin mining uranium at Sharbot Lake in Ontario, Canada. They faced immediate opposition from the Algonquin Ardoch and Shabot Obaajiwan First Nations, who “claimed the rights to the land and minerals around Sharbot Lake, based on a 1772 treaty” (Boddy and Rigell 2014). The First Nations began protests in June of 2007, holding demonstrations and protests around Sharbot Lake. Green Party leader Elizabe th May announced her support of the protests in September, and later that month the First Nations invited Christian Peacemaker Teams (CPT) to a blockade

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98 (Boddy and Rigell 2014). A number of larger organizations became involved in the dispute as well, inclu ding Greenpeace Canada, Mining Watch Canada, and Canadian Association of Physicians for the Environment. Robert Lovelace, a former Algonquin chief, was arrested and jailed in October along with six other protestors and was later sentenced to six months in prison and a fine of $50,000, an injustice opposed by Amnesty International (Boddy and Rigell 2014). After much debate, the First Nations reached an agreement with Frontenac Ventures in December 2008, which allowed the corporation to begin mining at the Sh arbot Lake site. Protests around uranium mining have also been prominent in Saskatchewan with indigenous opposition playing a large role (see, for instance, Goldstick 1987; Committee for Future Generations 2016; and Toledano 2015). Conclusion The role of women’s, minority, and religious groups contributed in various ways to the growth of the anti nuclear movement in North America, and to the eventual end of the nuclear arms race and the Cold War in 1991. In this Chapter , I have provided a broad overview of the anti nuclear movement in order to show, in part, that it was comprised of a number of disparate movements, with distinct aims and tactics, and that should not be read as representative of a harmonious social movement with a cohesive mission. Moreover , I have provided a broad overview of extant literature and spoken to the role that particular organizations and groups, including women’s groups, indigenous and other minority groups, and religious organizations, have played in the various aspects of the anti nuclear movement. There are still many smaller groups and organizations that also deserve acknowledgement that have not made it into these pages. The takeaway from this Chapter is this: Although there has been much research done that looks at the role of women’s organizations, minority groups, and religious institutions in the anti nuclear movement, much is still to be said about the often decisive contributions of specific

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99 activists and thinkers, as well as the role that religious and spiritual beliefs have played in shaping individual’s worldviews, especially when it comes to beliefs about nuclear weapons, nuclear energy, and nuclear war.

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100 CHAPTER 5 HENNY PENNY – THE SKY IS FALLING!: ON DR. HELEN CALDICOTT AND NUCLEAR WAR Figure 51: A Portrait of Dr. Helen Caldicott.1 Growing up, Helen Caldicott’s family called her “Hen,” a nickname derived from the English children’s folktale Henny Penny2, a story that Caldicott loved to hear her father tell (Caldicott 1997 , 28). Much like Henny Penny, Helen Caldicott has spent much of her life on a quest to tell the world that “the sky is falling.” After being introduced to Muller’s radiation experiments3 in 1955 (Caldicott 1997 , 45) and reading Nevil Shute’s On The Beach (1957), she became concerned 1 Image obtained from Caldicott’ s website (see Onsman 2020). 2 More commonly known as “ Chicken Little ” in the United States, versions of the folk tale date back at least twenty five centuries and is catalogued as part of the Aarne ThompsonUther Tale Type Index as type 20C, “ stories that make light of paranoia and mass hysteria ” (see Ashliman 1999). See al so Giaimo ( 2017). 3 In 1927 and 1928 Dr. Herman Joseph Muller performed a series of experiments with fruit flies and found that exposure to x rays, a form of high energy radiation, can cause genetic mutations, and changes to organisms’ genomes particularl y with egg and sperm cells (Gleason 2017). See also “Herman Joseph Muller’s Study of X Rays as a Mutagen, (1926 1927)” (2019).

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101 about the medical consequences of radiation exposure on humans, and especially children. As the threat of nuclear war grew during the Cold War era, Caldicott became politically active, driven by the threat of impending disaster and a passionate desire to protect the world’s children from harm. By the early 1970s, she had become one of the most influential facilitators of the global anti nuclear movement. She founded Women’s Action for Nuclear Disarmament (WAND)4, Nuclear Policy Research Institute (NPRI)5, and The Helen Caldicott Foundation.6 She also co founded Physicians for Social Responsibility (PSR)7 with Ira Helfand , and was one of the founders and the first president of Standing for Truth About Radiation (STAR) .8 Caldicott was also instrumental in the inception of International Physicians for the Prevention of Nuclear War (IPPNW)9 as well as numerous other domestic and international organizations and grassroots movements. Moreover, she inspired the engagement of various religious groups in the anti nuclear movement and facilitated the involvement of a number of minority groups, including women’s organizations, LGBTQ organizations, and Indigenous peoples. Caldicott cultivated a strong media presence under the representation of legendary publicist Pat Kingsley, appeared on a number of prominent television shows 10 and was one of the 4 Founded in 1982 in Cambridge, MA, the group changed its name after the end of the Cold War in 1991 to Women’s Action for New Di rections. Caldicott called it “one of the most effective lobbying bodies in Congress against nuclear weapons production” (Caldicott 2009 [1992], 241). See also “Women’s Action for New Directions” ( n.d. ) and “Women’s Action for New Directions: How We Got He re” ( n.d.). 5 Now Beyond Nuclear, Caldicott founded the 501(c)(3) in 2003, and was the president of the organization from 2003 to 2006 ( “ Beyond Nuclear ” 2009 ). 6 Founded by Caldicott in 2010. 7 For their website, see “Physicians for Social Responsibility” ( n.d.). 8 Co founded by Caldicott in 1997. Caldicott served as president from 1999 – 2000 (Onsman 2020). 9 See also “International Physicians for the Prevention of Nuclear War” (n.d.) . 10 Caldicott appeared on the Today Show, Good Morning America, The Merv Griffin Show, The Montel Williams Show, The Phil Donahue Show, The Oprah Winfrey Show, CNN, and 60 Minutes, among others. For a complete list of her television appearances, see Onsman ( 2020). See also Hogan ( 1994).

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102 two most quoted anti nuclear activis ts in the media (Meyer 1990 , 128). Mary Benjamin’s documentary, Eight Minutes to Midnight (1981), covered the demanding life of Caldicott between 1978 and 1980 and was nominated for the 1981 Academy Award for Documentary Feature (Benjamin 1981). Terri Nash ’s documentary If You Love this Planet (1982), which showed a lecture that Caldicott gave detailing the effects of nuclear weapons and nuclear war, won the 1982 Academy Award for Documentary Short Subject (Nash 1982). The Reagan Administration labeled it “ propaganda ,” which effectively restricted its distribution in the United States and abroad (Hays 2017). Caldicott amassed a devout following, helped to develop a nation wide anti nuclear education movement, and held private meetings with some of the highes t ranking political authorities of the age, including President Ronald Reagan. She has been the recipient of a number of prestigious awards including, most recently, Physician’s for Social Responsibility’s Lifetime Achievement Award (2019). 11 In addition t o all of her political work, Caldicott has written and co authored a number of books and edited volumes 12 and is also a physician of pediatric medicine, a specialist in the treatment of pediatric Cystic Fibrosis (henceforth CF), and the founder of the CF C linic at Adelaide Children’s Hospital (1975) (Caldicott 1997; Onsman 2020; “Helen Caldicott, M.D.” 2020). Despite her influence, accomplishments, and visibility in the public eye, Caldicott’s message and her contribution have often been dismissed, belittl ed, and ignored. In many 11 For a more complete list of awards, s ee (Onsman 2020). 12 Caldicott has written six books, Missile Envy (1986 [1984]), Nuclear Madness (1994 [1978]), The New Nuclear Danger (2002), Nuclear Power is Not the Answer (2006), If You Love This Planet (2009 [1992]), and her autobiography, A Desperate Passion (1997), co authored War in Heaven (2007) with Craig Eisendrath, and edited three volumes Sleepwalking to Armageddon (2017), Crisis Without End (2009) , and Loving this Planet (2012).

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103 instances, she has been recognized first and foremost as a wife 13 and mother14 including by Senator Edward M. Kennedy, who dubbed her the “mother of the nuclear freeze movement” (Cavin, Hale, and Cavin 2002, 245). In many instances , Caldicott’s commitment to her family has been called into question because of her dedication to her career and her activism. 15 Moreover, much like the character Henny Penny, Caldicott has been described as “hysterical” 16 and “alarmist” 17, as well as “agg ressive”18, “emotional”19, “egocentric”20 and “a scaremonger ,”21 and has been charged with exaggerating 22 data.23 During the 1970s and 1980s, critics called her presentations the “Helen Caldicott Horror Show” because of the gruesome picture that she painted for her audiences (Jennes 1981) and her talks were “criticized for scaring and even ‘paralyzing’” her audiences (Lofland 1993, 123). In his 2013 documentary, Pandora’s Promise, Robert Stone attacked Caldicott’s work as well as her appearance (Stone 2013). In "Metaphors of 13 See Bartusiak ( 1996). 14 See Duella ( 1979) ; Bartusiak ( 1996) ; and Jennes ( 1981) . 15 Caldicott said: “Full page articles and photographs of me and the family appeared almost every week in major magazines: People, McCall’s, Time, Life, Yankee, Penthouse, Family Circle, La dies Home Journal, and others. Many of them were along the lines of ‘ Attractive Australian born Dr. Helen Caldicott, a wife and mother, wants to save the world ’ ” (Caldicott 1997 , 246). See also Benjamin ( 1981). 16 See Caldicott ( 1997, 111) ; Bolt ( 2014 , 2016). 17 See Caldicott ( 1997, 314) and Bolt ( 2014) . 18 See Caldicott ( 1997, 348) . 19 See Caldicott ( 1997, 272, 287), Duella ( 1979), Eccleston ( 2018), and Barnaby ( 1997) . 20 See Eccleston ( 2018) . 21 See Caldicott ( 1997, 314) , Eccleston ( 2018), and Barnaby ( 1997) . 22 See, for instance, Monboit ( 2011) . 23 Benjamin Redekop wrote that “Helen Caldicott in particular made abundant use of her femininity, emotional intelligence, and identity as a mother to rally a wide variety of people from around the world to the cause” (2010, 279).

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104 Control toward a Language of Peace: Recent Self Defining Rhetorical Constructs of Helen Caldic ott ,” Margaret Cavin, Katherine Hale, and Barry Cavin wrote: Caldicott polarizes, dehumanizes, assumes a superior and controlling posture, [and] uses inflammatory and mystifying language. [and said that her] tactic of taking on the tools of the empowered violent to destroy their system has resulted in her failure as a peace activist . (Cavin, Hale, and Cavin 2002, 259) She has faced physical and psychological violence, abuse, and trauma throughout her life and her career, including abuse and neglect from her mother, psychological abuses by male colleagues, and challenges in her marriage. Much of her lifework has been rendered inconsequential, her effectiveness demeaned and dismissed, and her leadership called into question. Moreover , her contribution has been rendered invisible, erased entirely from the histories and celebrated successes of two of the organizations that she was instrumental in founding. Reflecting on her life and accomplishments in an interview on 12 February 2020, C aldicott told me: I was nave and thinking oh, we can save the world. And in a way we did. We helped to bring an end to the Cold War. But in my old age I feel quite sad. And I want written on my tombstone “ She tried.” And underneath, “ She failed. ”24 Neve rtheless, Caldicott has persisted. When I interviewed her in 2020, Caldicott was 81, and was still speaking out against the unremitting threat of nuclear war, warning that “we are closer to nuclear war now than we have ever been .” Caldicott’s experiences enable us to think about three important questions: first, what is the role of dominant cultural myths in shaping women’s lived experiences; second, what role do these myths have in constructing legacies of (in)visibility in the lives of women; and third, what insights arise from thinking about how these (in)visibilities inform women’s religious and spiritual beliefs and environmental work. 24 All quotes in this Chapter attributed to Caldicott and otherwise uncited are from an interview with her (via Skype) conducted by the author, Amanda M. Nichols, on 12 February 2020 and from email communications with the author on 12 February 2020, 18 February 2020, 20 February 2021, and 23 Februar y 2021.

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105 Caldicott’s Early Life “A Woman’s Place is in the Home” Caldicott’s life has been informed, at least in part, by t wo prevailing cultural myths about women: The Feminine Mystique and the Beauty Myth. A deeper reading of Caldicott’s life that considers the pervasiveness of these myths as they have operated in society provides valuable insight to the ways that her life w as shaped by patriarchal cultural myths about femininity, feminine beauty, and feminine domesticity. Moreover, examining Caldicott’s experiences through these lenses reveals legacies of (in)visibility at work in the lives of women that are applicable to al l women’s lived experiences to various degrees, and that transcend constructed socio cultural, economic, ethnic , and heteronormative boundaries. Helen Caldicott was born Helen Mary Broinowski on 7 August 1938 in Melbourne, Australia, the first child of Ph ilip Broinowski and Mary Mona Enyd Coffey Broinowski. Caldicott had a tempestuous childhood. Although she described her youth as happy and generally harmonious, she and her siblings, Richard and Susan, also endured trauma, abuse, and neglect, especially at the hands of their mother. Caldicott’s mother, Mary was born in 1911, the fourth child, and only daughter, of James Coffey and Ethyl Clarke. Caldicott remembered her mother as a firm proponent of the idea that “women could do whatever they set their minds to” and as an “early feminist before the word was coined” (Caldicott 1997 , 10). Mary qualified for university entrance in the 1920s , which was uncommon for women during that time, but only completed one year at university. “Like most parents of the time ,” however, Mary’s parents “believed that a woman’s place was in the home” and Mary was primarily sequestered within the domestic sphere for most of her life (Caldicott 1997 , 9). Caldicott conveyed her mother’s resentment for having to “iron her brothers’ sh irts while they went out on the town” and wrote that: Being Cinderella rarely turns women into saints, despite the fairy tales, and her frustration might have triggered the dark side of Mum’s personality. She had a

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106 violent temper, and when we were kids she was racked by inexplicable bouts of uncontrollable rage . (Caldicott 1997, 9) After Mary met and married Philip Broinowski in the late 193 0s , she became a housewife, tasked with attending to the needs of her three children while her husband worked. Unfulfilled by her role as housewife, Mary decided to enroll in an interior design course and went on to open her own shop, called Bretts (Caldicott 1997 , 38). Mary also establish ed her own interior design consultancy and was employed in 1954 by S tephenson and Turner to design the interior of the new Queen Elizabeth Hospital in Adelaide. In 2006, the University of New South Wales established the Mary Broinowski Prize for Interior Architecture , a grant award for interior design for graduating colleg e students. Caldicott said in 2021 that her mother was “the most intelligent women [she] ever knew .” For much of her adult life Mary suffered from excruciating physical pain and depression. Her symptoms were diagnosed by her male physician in the 1940s as the side effects of the bacterial disease, syphilis. When the rest of the family tested negative, it was assumed that Mary caught the disease during an illicit affair. Her doctor told her that “she was a wicked woman” (Caldicott 1997 , 23). Caldicott recalled that the “ignominy” Mary suffered after the diagnoses “was severe” and that at times, her mother contemplated suicide (Caldicott 1997 , 22). Nearly a decade later, another doctor found that Mary had acute rheumatoid arthritis, which had been misdiagnose d by her previous physician. As a result of the previous diagnosis, Mary suffered undue physical and psychological trauma from the incident. The improper and negligent treatment at the hands of her physician forced her to face unnecessary humiliation, as w ell as endure continuing physical pain. Mary’s continued pain also had unintended consequences for her family, and especially for Caldicott. Pregnant with her second child and heavily fatigued, Mary, along with her husband Philip, decided to go away on vac ation, leaving Caldicott, who

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107 was eighteen months old at the time, at an institutional home for two weeks. In her autobiography, Caldicott described her experience: I remember being placed upon a cold metal table and being forcefully held down by a pair o f huge hands covered in black hair as I struggled and screamed blue murder while they placed a cloth over my face and a ghastly smell filled my nose – chloroform. (Caldicott 1997 , 14) It is important to note that scientists doubt the veracity of such early memories.25 Caldicott claims, however, that she does recall those memories and that, when her parents returned, she was severely ill, having developed a middle ear infection so bad that she had to undergo surgery (Caldicott 1997 , 14). After her brother, Richard, was born, Caldicott remembered feeling neglected by her mother (Caldicott 1997, 16). Susan, born only twenty months after Richard, was a “populate or perish”26 baby, conceived, according to Mary, “more by duty than desire” (Caldicott 1997, 17). Despite the duty Mary felt to conceive children because of the populate or perish dictate, she did not express the same desire to rear them according to Caldicott, who said that she and her siblings were “not a high priority” for her mother. Moreove r, Caldicott recalled instances of both physical and emotional abuse, directed specifically at her, by Mary . 25 The International Society for Traumatic Stress Studies (ISTSS), for instance, has found that memories of childhood trauma, including recovered memories, are not always accurate (ISTSS n.d. ). Moreover, in their article “Memory For Traumatic Experiences in Early Childhood ,” Cordn et al. found that “although infants and young children are capable of acquiring and retaining memories of past experiences, there is little evidence that even following the acquisition of language, children can provide narrative accounts of experiences, traumatic or otherwise, that occur in the first 2 years of life. Young children may show evidence of verbal recall of bits and pieces of past experiences that occurred between 18 and 30 months of age, but sti ll have great difficulty providing a coherent narrative of their experiences. It should be no surprise, therefore, that these earliest memories of trauma seldom become part of our adult autobiographical memories” (Cordn et al . 2004). 26 The “populate or perish” mentality was promoted in post World War II Australia by the Labour Party government, and especially by Immigration Minister Arthur Calwell. Labour Party leaders advocated the idea, now seen as racist, of increasing the population, especially of wh ite Australia by increasing immigration from European countries and encouraging families to have more children. This mentality was a direct attempt to protect Australians from the ‘teeming hoards’ in Asia, who were, at that time, seen as the enemy. See Ell iot ( 2012).

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108 I was wary of her. Some daysshe hardly noticed my existence: on other days she would meet me on the doorstep andlash out at me. The loss of a h air ribbon or other inconsequential item was almost always a trigger which could precipitate a towering rage. She used to hit me with a coat hanger or a wooden spoon, kicking me as I cowered on the kitchen floor trying to avoid blows. These onslaughts lef t me guilty and frightened. (Caldicott 1997, 23)27 According to Caldicott, her father was likely unaware of the abuses his wife enacted on the children while he was away at work, but if he did know, he never said anything (Caldicott 1997, 23). Analyzing Mary’s and Caldicott’s experiences shows us not only the ways that patriarchal cultural myths have shaped ideas about feminine domesticity in many women’s lived experiences, but it also reveals layers of (in)visibility at work in women’s lives. As a white , middle class women, Mary was bound by cultural stigmas that relegated women like her predominantly to the domestic sphere. Cultural norms, reinforced by her parents and her doctor, ensured that Mary remained “a woman in her place,” despite her resentment and rage. But even though she faced extensive challenges in her life, Mary went on to excel in her self made career in interior design and was an early and strong proponante of female empowerment and ideas that later came to be associated with the feminist movement. Caldicott further described her mother as “brilliant” and said that she was a “voracious reader” who was “deeply interested in [and knowledgeable about] politics and history.” I mportantly for our purposes is the insight that Mary’s story provides to the various ways that (in)visibility is embedded within cultural norms . In many ways, her experiences also demonstrate the lasting implications of these legacies on f uture generations of women. In comparison to her brothers, Mary’s desires were tempered by her parents and by her own 27 See also Jennes ( 1981).

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109 struggle with depression . Her intellectual capacities were ignored, and thus rendered invisible and the opportunity to flourish was also precluded thereby. Caldicott said that she did not understand the psychological effects and pain her mother endured until years later (Caldicott 1997, 24). Psychological trauma was inflicted by a doctor who used his power to reprimand a woman and make visible her transgressions even though they had no bearing on her condition or treatment. Mary’s response to her condition had direct and longlasting consequences for Caldicott, revealing cross generational implications and legacies of (in)visibility of patriar chal ideologies and sexism in the lives of women. Caldicott wrote that the trauma she suffered as a child “changed [her] life” (Caldicott 1997, 15). Moreover, whether Philip was actually unaware of the abuses being inflicted upon his children or chose not to see them raises the question of how (in)visibility functions in respect to the gendered norms of prevailing cultural mythologies. Caldicott would go on to face her own challenges, battling against the gendered status quo of patriarchal cultur e and the forces of (in)visibility at work in her own life. “If You Wear Pearls, You Can Say Anything” Even though she had felt relatively invisible as a child, Caldicott’s experience changed dramatically when she reached adolescence. Her life from that point forwa rd was significantly impacted by what Naomi Wolf has called “the beauty myth” (Wolf 1991). During adolescence Caldicott recalled that she “metamorphosed from an ugly duckling into a swan,” became more popular at school among the other girls and began to at tract the gaze of boys and men (Caldicott 1997, 36). While away for summer camp at the age of fourteen, a boy named Clarrie began to express his interest. Being inexperienced, Caldicott was “flattered, but confused” by the attention (Caldicott 1997 , 37). One night[Clarrie] pulled me down onto the ground and started kissing me and feeling my breasts. I let him go on for a while because it felt so good, but when he became more urgent, I grew uneasy and stopped him . (Caldicott 1997, 37)

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110 Distressed by the sit uation, Caldicott tried to discuss it with her mother, but Mary “seemed not to be upset by it” and gave her no advice (Caldicott 1997, 37). The following year, at the age of fifteen, Caldicott began to be pursued by a twenty one year old man. Knowing that their relationship was only about sex, Caldicott said “I started to feel uncomfortable” but “I had no idea how to extricate myself from the situation” (Caldicott 1997 , 38). The language that Caldicott used when describing these two instances emphasizes her vulnerability as a child as well as her passivity. Caldicott’s adolescent experiences are not uncommon among girls and women. In fact, prevailing cultural norms constructed around myths of feminine beauty, youth, and sexuality have often promoted, and even enabled women and children to be seen as the passive coveted objects of male desire absent of any abject personhood, the vulnerable receptacles of male virility (Adams 1990; Nichols 2021). This is true in Caldicott’s case as well. With Clarrie, Caldicot t became the passive recipient of his sexual desire for her physical form. With the older man, Caldicott felt powerless to escape his pursual and sexual advances. Here, despite her visibility in terms of her attractiveness and budding sexuality, her wishes , desires, and fears remained invisible to these men, eclipsed by their desire for her body. Moreover, Mary’s reaction (or lack thereof) indicated to Caldicott not only that this behavior is common, but that it is also acceptable and unproblematic. But Mar y’s reaction also sheds light on how prevailing cultural norms establish layers of (in)visibility for women, in that they dictate the ways that women are viewed, seen, described, and defined, as well as the ways that women learn to view, see, describe, and define themselves in relation to others. In 1955, at the age of 17, Caldicott was accepted to study medicine at the University of Adelaide (Caldicott 1997 , 43). She was one of only thirteen women in the class of 150 students. During her first year Biolog y course, Caldicott became impassioned when learning about

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111 Muller’s radiation experiments and the mutagenic effects of radiation. When she attempted to share her excitement for the topic by discussing it with her male classmates during their lunchtime poke r game she was immediately dismissed (Caldicott 1997 , 1986 [1984]). “They looked at me with disdain in their eyes ,” Caldicott said, “who was this madwoman interrupting us?” (Caldicott 1997, 45). Caldicott was, in this instance, a woman “out of place .” Not only was she a female minority in a male dominated field, but she also had the audacity to make herself, and her intellect, visible during a time when women were still predominantly relegated to the domestic sphere. Moreover, her transgression across t he established boundary of cultural norms led these young men to question her sanity. Through her adult life, Caldicott faced increasing pressure by male colleagues and her spouse as she became more visible as a woman in the media and more “out of place” according to the conventions of society. Despite this, Caldicott embraced her femininity and sexuality, adopting ideals about feminine beauty as a strategy to gain power by manipulating the system to become increasingly visible. She said: If you look attrac tive, people consider you trustworthy and they tend to believe your logic, however radical. I used to say, “ If you wear pearls, you can say anything” . It stood to reason, then, that my Jaeger suits and pearls made the grim message about the medical dangers of nuclear power and nuclear war more accessible to middle America. (Caldicott 1997, 156) It is important to note, however, that Caldicott had accesses that not all women have. Her beauty, her whiteness, her level of education, her social class, and even her accent, afforded Caldicott opportunities to become, and to remain, visible. Aware of this heightened level of access, Caldicott said: I think Americans think my accent is kind of English. So, my accent helped. I was pretty good looking in those days, so on television I looked pretty good. So, really, I became an actress. although that was a bit manipulative.

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112 Whether manipulative or not, Caldicott’s actions have been effective. Caldicott has been a particularly visible woman throughout her life and career. But despite that visibility, many layers of her lived experience have remained invisible, and preclude our understanding of the challenges she has faced as woman, wife, mother, and activist. “Trust Your Intuition” During her final year of medical school, Caldicott’s father became extremely ill. Less than a month after being admitted to the hospital, he died, on 1 February 1961. Doctors found white masses in his liver, indicative of cancer, but the exact cause of dea th was unknown. Caldicott explained that the masses in his liver could have been secondaries from another primary cancer. On the final day that he was alive, Caldicott said, “he begged me to stay with him, but I left. I made the wrong decision. I never saw him conscious again” (Caldicott 1997, 54). This decision would haunt Caldicott for the rest of her life. Years later she reflected candidly on the grief of her family, saying that Susan “was so distraught that she seriously considered leaping off the balc ony of the nursing home” where she worked, while Richard was careless, often “driving the family car through the hills at great speed” (Caldicott 1997 , 57). Mary’s words, inscribed in the pages of Caldicott’s autobiography, reflect the dynamics of (in)visi bility associated with grief and loss: Grief has a taste and a smell. It is a physical lack of a physical presence, a deprivation of voice, a laugh, a wit, an attitude of mind. A loss of sturdy independence. A loss of reliance, complete in its absolute steadiness and predictability. Grief hides in music, in a tone of voice, a footstep down the passage. It is a realization of the solitariness of each human, alone at birth, alone at death. And the worst of all is its utter and final ending of a life while the mind still holds an image of a personality. It is this fight between life in the mind and death in the body that makes adjustment impossible. Grief is not a beautiful thing. It’s a ragged, tearing bitter thin g. (Caldicott 1997, 56)

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113 M ary’s words shed light on the ways that grief, while oft constructed as an invisible emotion, affects the lives of those who experience it in tangible and visible ways. Grief manifests in the empty spaces and silences once occupied, becoming a visible and constant reminder of the absence of presence. Moreover, it reveals the long lasting implications, or legacies, of grief, the (in)visible effects that resonate through the lives of those left behind. Philip’s absence at Caldicott’s graduation is a prime example: she recalled that, although “Mum was there in her best hat and clothes, Dad wasn’t. In a subtle way much of my life has felt like that ever since, a certain emotional void which would never again be filled” (Caldicott 1997, 57). (In)visibility also played a dynamic role in a variety of other emotional experiences for Caldicott. While still in medical school, Caldicott began dating Bill Caldicott, the man who would become her husband. Caldicott recalled having reservations about Bill early on in the relationship and said she “was never sure whether Bill was the right man” for her (Caldicott 1997, 60). After breaking off their relationship numerous times, Caldicott abandoned her intuition, and despite still feeling “uneasy at some level ,” accepted Bill ’s proposal for marriage (Caldicott 1997 , 61). In 1963, several months after their engagement, Caldicott found out that she was pregnant. Although she had been “waiting for the day when [she] could be a real mother and life could begin,” becoming a mother was socially conditioned by the idea that a woman should be married before becoming pregnant (Caldicott 1997, 26). This stigma was reinforced by her parents and husband. When she told Bill about the pregnancy, his immediate response was “you wouldn’t do th is to me” (Caldicott 1997 , 62). With his words ringing in my ears, I thought: That’s it, I have to terminate the pregnancy. Igave myself an injection of ergometrine to induce an abortion. I vomited all over my bedroom floor, but the drug induced no uterine contractions.

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114 Susan knocked on my door just after I cleaned up the mess, but I didn’t tell her that I was pregnant , that I had just tried to abort myself, or that I was extremely depressed . (Caldicott 1997, 62) Despite having also “conceived an extramarital pregnancy ,” Mary castigated Caldicott on her wedding day, saying “this is the first time you’ve let me down” and told her to “pull her stomach in” (Caldicott 1997 , 62). Caldicott later acknowledged the duplicity of her mothers’ behavior and said, “in retrospect, I realize I made the [abortion] attempt to comply with my parental admonitions” (Caldicott 1997, 62). L ayers of (in)visibility flit throughout Caldicott’s experience. Her lifelong desire for a child is masked by the untimeliness of her pregnancy. Her transgression, rendered visible through the protrusion of her pregnant belly, is juxtaposed by the unseen social masses for whom the transgression is so problematic. Bill’s selfish words, “you wouldn’t do this to me ,” illuminate the societal tendency to place responsibility, and even blame, for pregnancy on women and to overlook the man’s role and responsibility in conception. Caldicott’s wiping away of her sickness and rendering invisible her abortion attempt until she wrote about it thirty five years later is symbolic of the ways that women’s traumas are often hidden from society, and even from one another. The “don’t let them see you cry” mentality is advice shared openly among women, but it prevents the formation of valuable solidarities around shared traumas. Caldicott’s experience further shows that transgression is a mode of becoming visible for women in society; by transgressing established boundaries and breaking social custom women become visible, albeit most often in a problematic or negative light. “You’ll Make a Good Wife Someday” Unlike her mother, Caldicott relished her domestic role. Soon after the birth of her son Philip, whom Caldicott named after her father, she became pregnant again with her second child, Penny. “I vaguely planned to return to my career” Caldicott wrote, “but I was totally content at

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115 this stage of my life having my babies” (Cald icott 1997, 68). Despite that, Caldicott recalled that her “hackles rose” when one of her teachers suggested that she “become a pathologist because it was a nineto five job and therefore suitable for a married woman” (Caldicott 1997 , 68). She added, “I kn ew he would never suggest a similar course of action to any of my male colleagues” (Caldicott 1997 , 68). When she did return to her career, Caldicott faced criticism from men and women alike for her choice to be a working mother, including sexism from male colleagues, and jealousy from her husband. Fifteen months after Penny was born, Caldicott became pregnant with her third child. Subsequently, Bill told her that “he felt trapped by marriage and babies at the age of twentysix” (Caldicott 1997 , 71). During Caldicott’s pregnancy, Bill “leapt at the opportunity” to apply for a radiology fellowship at Harvard Medical School (Caldicott 1997 , 71). The following months would prove exceptionally difficult for Caldicott, for when Bill accepted the position, they decided that Caldicott and the children would stay and live with Mary until after the baby was born, after which they would all join Bill in Boston. Reflecting on that decision, Caldicott wrote that “trained and accustomed to placing the needs of my husband before my own I suppressed my fears because I didn’t want to stand in Bill’s way” (Caldicott 1997 , 72). After Bill’s departure: Reality hit like a ton of bricks. Here I was, seven months pregnant, alone and unsupported. I had let the most important reli able support disappear from my life. Mum discovered me in the bedroom sobbing in despair, and she hugged me; but still the load remained on my shoulders . (Caldicott 1997, 72) Caldicott gave birth to her third child, William, completely alone. After his b irth, Caldicott became increasingly depressed, and took her own frustrations out on her children: I began to lose my temper with Philip and Penny, screaming at them, sometimes even slapping them in sheer frustration. I was like a madwoman, taking out my rage and fear on my beautiful babies. [A]s I did so, a tape played in the back of

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116 my head, “ That’s right, Mum did it” – the mark of Cain handed on from generation to generation . (Caldicott 1997 , 76) Here, Caldicott’s words clearly reveal the legacies of (in)visibility that emotional trauma and despair have on future generations. The family moved to Boston in 1966, and the trauma Caldicott experienced was masked by the sense of duty and obligation that she felt to her family to maintain domestic order. Ca ldicott described the first five months in Boston as purgatory. Mary’s health continued to decline from severe pulmonary fibrosis, for which there was no treatment: I should have understood that my mother had significant health problems. But there was anot her dynamic at work – if she was really sick, I didn’t want to know. Losing Dad had been bad enough; but I couldn’t face the thought that I could lose Mum as well, especially when I was feeling so alone and fragile. Denial is a very powerful mechanism: lo oking back, I see what a huge part it played in my emotional reality at this stage of my life . (Caldicott 1997, 74) Despite this, Caldicott found herself “bargaining with the Almighty ,” making absurd deals in order to process her own fear and grief (Caldicott 1997, 74). Mary and Bill fought constantly and Bill “felt threatened by [Mary’s] proprietorial attitude toward the children” so, as Caldicott perceived it later, he manipulated Cald icott into distancing herself from her mother (Caldicott 1997, 80). Mary eventually decided to return home to Australia. Caldicott lamented that she was not free to tell her mother how she felt because she “thought it would mean being disloyal to Bill” (Ca ldicott 1997, 81). When the Caldicott family decided to stay another year in Boston, Mary was furious, ruthlessly placing blame on her daughter for the decision. Bill’s meddling encouraged and exacerbated the estrangement between mother and daughter. When her mother died on 29 April 1969, Bill “strongly opposed” her desire to return home for the funeral (Caldicott 1997 , 90). I let myself be persuaded, a decision I was to regret for the rest of my life. Years later, after my emotional numbness passed, I understood how much I had

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117 needed to hold Mum’s small body in my arms, to say goodbye . (Caldicott 1997, 90) After the death of her mother, Caldicott “lost all feelings of emotional safety” and felt that life had become “almost unbearable” (Caldicott 1997 , 91). Throughout her marriage, her feelings and emotions often took a backseat to Bill’s. While still married, she wrote, for instance: The only way to true happiness is to give love and have no need. In my marriage, I have found that if I blame my husband for my unhappy state, I don’t get his love. But if I abandon my selfish needs and I give him what he needs, making no demands the tables turn . (Caldicott 1986 [1984], 234) Caldicott’s story exemplifies the ways that many women are rendered (in)visible in their own lives. Not only did her emotional needs take a backseat to her husbands’ desires and his career, but her grief, despair, and depression went unrecognized and unvalidated. Moreover, as secondwave feminism empowered women to enter the workforce, expectations that they would also continue to maintain the domestic sphere did not abate. The term “superwoman” came into vogue during the 1970s to describe women who developed fruitful careers or other time intensive roles while also bearing the brunt of do mestic duties.28 While still in Boston, Caldicott decided to return to her medical career, and began working part time with Dr. Harry Schwachman at Harvard University’s Children’s Hospital (Caldicott 1997 , 84). At that time, she was “torn between medicine and trying to fulfill the emotional requirements of [her] children, [and] felt [she] had to do everything, nothing could be compromised” (Caldicott 1997, 8586). With the majority of the domestic responsib ilities on her shoulders, Caldicott was overwhelmed and lonely. “I kept thinking that if I were a man, my wife would almost certainly be supportive. 28 See Conran ( 1975 , 1977, 1979, 1990) ; Shaevitz ( 1984) ; Serrin ( 1976) ; and Friedan ( 1981) .

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118 Looking back, I suppose what I needed was a wife” Caldicott later wrote (Caldicott 1997, 216). During that time, Caldicott developed a close friendship with a female doctor from Belgium. There was an immediate and unusual rapport between us of warmth and communication. I did not connect these feelings – which I never allowed myself to express – to lesbianism, something with which I was barely familiar. Now I realize that there was an emotional void in my life, and I was in love with her . (Caldicott 1997 , 86) Caldicott’s sentiments reveal multiplying layers of (in)visibility. Raised in a heteronormative familial structure informed by monotheistic values, Caldicott was, as she said, barely familiar with lesbianism. Moreover, conditioned by ideas of social deviance, Caldicott was wary of openly conveying her feelings. Lamenting her failing marriage, but unable t o escape her own domestic hell, Caldicott threw herself into her work. Meanwhile, the responsibilities of maintaining a sense of domestic normalcy and order were her burden alone to bear. Later, in the early 1970s, Caldicott read Germaine Greer’s The Femal e Eunuch (1971), which argued that consumer society and the traditional nuclear family model repressed women’s sexuality. Caldicott told me that the book was “deeply influential” to her and, in her autobiography, wrote that reading it made her consider for the first time the importance of what she thought about things (Caldicott 1997, 99). After reading the book, Caldicott wrote that she “developed a white hot certainty that left no room for compromise. The depression lifted at last, and I had no compunctio n about speaking my mind at dinner parties, political meetings, and other social settings, much to other people’s discomfort” (Caldicott 1997 , 99). Her marriage to Bill, devoid of romantic passion and full of emotional manipulation, would end in 1988, aft er twenty five years of marriage, when Bill began having an affair. Several years after her marriage ended, Caldicott developed a relationship with her editor. They became partners and moved to Australia together in 1998. Caldicott said that she has been “very

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119 happy” throughout their time together but declined to go into detail about their relationship saying “ [ She ] is very private, so I think I won’t. She’d prefer not.” “Be Seen Not Heard” Caldicott’s political career began in 1971 after someone handed he r a leaked government document detailing high levels of radioactive fallout over Adelaide from atmospheric nuclear testing in the Pacific. At the time, the family had returned to Adelaide and Caldicott had decided to go back to school, training at the Roya l Australian College of Physicians as a pediatrician. She had three small children at home and was working nearly eighty hours a week at the time, and “knew that radiation could induce genetic disease as well as cancer and leukemia, particularly in childre n” (Caldicott 1997 , 110). Caldicott wrote a letter to the local Adelaide paper , T he Advertiser, pointing out the medical dangers of radioactive isotopes in human breast milk. She gave her first public speech, and spoke with passion about radiation, genetic disease, and the medical ramifications of the French nuclear tests. From that point forward, Caldicott’s career in the spotlight snowballed, but a backlash began almost immediately. The Advertiser, for example , published a response by Stewart Cockburn in which Dr. Peter Ronai, the head of nuclear medicine at the Royal Adelaide Hospital, accused her of being “hysterical ” and of misrepresenting data (Caldicott 1997 11112). When the hospital began to receive calls about the French tests, the medical superintendent, Dr. Bill McCoy called Caldicott to his office, and threatened her job. “If you don’t stop this public campaigning” Caldicott recalled him saying, “we may not be able to appoint you as medical registrar next year” (Caldicott 1997 , 121). Her dream of developing a CF clinic was dependent upon the appointment. Caldicott’s husband, Bill, confronted McCoy, telling him that “his behavior was outrageous and that he would not treat a ward maid as he had treated” her (Caldicott 1997 , 122). Caldicott said tha t McCoy “picked up a chair and threw it against the wall,

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120 admitting his guilt”29 and “later wrote [her] a letter of apology at Bill’s insistence” (Caldicott 1997, 122). McCoy also admitted that her work had not suffered as a result of her political activism (Caldicott 1997 , 121). But this was not the only time that McCoy would try to silence Caldicott. When she was invited to join a delegation to protest the French nuclear tests in Tahiti, she had to gain his permission for her leave of absence. She recalled: “ You can’t go,” he said when I had made my request. “ I won’t give you permission .” I was nonplussed until I thought of an answer: “ But the press will want to know why I can’t go”. He hesitated, and finally said: “ All right, you can go, but you’re not to say anything.” (Caldicott 1997, 123) Since 1966 the French government had been carrying out atmospheric testing at Mururoa and Fangataufa atolls in French Polynesia (“France’s Nuclear Testing Programme” 2012). The delegation that assembled to go to Tahiti to protest these tests included “unionists, students, church people and politicians”: they were deterred however when they learned that the French government in Tahiti would not allow them to disembark from the plane (Caldicott 1997 , 12223). Instead, the group decided to “carry the antinuclear protest to the highest level” and sent a delegation of three people to the French government in Paris. Caldicott was chosen to go, accompanied by Ken Newcomb, the president of the Australian Union of Students, and Australian politician James (Jim) Cairns (Labour Party). The Australian delegation was eventually granted a meeting with two men from the French department of Fo reign Affairs. Predictably, Caldicott did not remain silent, instead confronting the French about the medical dangers of the radioactive fallout from nuclear tests. 29 Though throwing a chair against the wall is not necessarily an admission of guilt, coupled with his letter of apology, Caldi cott interpreted it as such. It is possible that McCoy’s anger was a transference of emotion for shame that he felt (either for his action, or at getting caught) and thus, could be interpreted as an admission of guilt. However, without testimony from McCoy (now deceased) we cannot know for sure the intent of his actions – we can only know Caldicott’s interpretation of them.

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121 When the French declared that “their bombs were perfectly safe” Jim suggested that they sho uld test over the Mediterranean instead (Caldicott 1997 , 125). Caldicott said: The blood drained from their faces. And so, we learned the truth. I was shaken. This was the first time in my life that I had sat opposite wicked politicians who didn’t care i f their actions knowingly caused the death of children. (Caldicott 1997 , 125) Media coverage of their efforts contributed to growing public awareness of the ramifications of continued nuclear testing. As Dewes and Green wrote, “the public, increasingly aware of the health and environmental effects, and in solidarity with smaller Pac ific Island states, formed coalitions across society and explored several visionary initiatives with the government” (Dewes & Green 1999, 7). Notably, among those, was the petition from Auckland Campaign for Nuclear Disarmament (CND)30, asking the governme nt “either alone or with other protesting nations, to take action in the General Assembly of the United Nations and the South Pacific Commission on the question of the infringement of human rights and international law by France” (Dewes & Green 1999, 7). C aldicott led a successful public education campaign for nine months (Caldicott 1992; 2009, xii). In early 1973, the newly elected Australian Labour party leader Gough Whitlam, along with the New Zealand government, took the issue to the International Court of Justice. “Though the court’s decision was equivocal ,” Caldicott wrote, “adverse international publicity forced France to test underground, thus stopping the radioactive fallout in the Pacific” (Caldicott 1997 , 126). Despite her success, when she return ed home, Bill asked her “to refrain from any more political work” so that she could keep “some connection to the family” (Caldicott 1997, 130). Although she acquiesced, Caldicott said, “I missed that side of my life” (Caldicott 1997, 130). 30 Auckland CND was founded in 1959 in Christchurch, New Zealand by Elsie Locke and Mary Woodward.

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122 This success is just one example of the powerful political impact that Caldicott would have. However, it also serves as a key example of what she had to overcome in order to be able to do it. Of her experience with the delegation, Caldicott said: I see now that I was reb elling, not just against my relative powerlessness as a woman within the patriarchal Australian society, but also against my parents. They were the most powerful people I had ever known. Mum’s death gave me the impetus to engage in a delayed rebellion, to discover my real strengths and beliefs . (Caldicott 1997, 121) That desire and certainty would drive Caldicott’s political efforts from that point forward. Caldicott was appointed medical registrar in 1973, despite the earlier controversy about her poli tical engagement. But when she went to sit for her membership exam, she failed. Caldicott was “devastated” by the results but learned shortly thereafter that she had purposefully been given a case with an ambiguous diagnosis. When she became outspoken and critical of the cardiologists who administered the exam, a consultant that Caldicott referred to as “Dr. X”31 began to harass her. She recalled that: “Dr. X sought me out and uttered a few veiled threats to the effect that if I continued my criticism, I w ould not be appointed next year” (Caldicott 1997, 131). She went on to say: This man continued to target me. One Saturday morning I brought Penny in to accompany me on ward rounds. When I introduced her to Dr. X, he asked her to bend over and smacked her on the bottom. “ That’s because your mother never has time to smack you” he said, implying that I had no right to work and should have been at home with the children. I was furious. The blatant sexism was beyond belief, but I knew that if I complained, my jo b would be jeopardized. (Caldicott 1997, 132) Despite the persistent harassment and psychological abuse enacted by Dr. X, Caldicott passed her membership exam in November 1973. Although she had been successful, the previous 31 When I asked her in 2020 if she would willingly name this doctor, Caldicott declined to do so, giving no reason why.

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123 promise that she could open a C F clinic at Adelaide’s Children’s Hospital was denied. She fought back, compiling data that showed Adelaide’s CF survival rates were significantly lower (4 years) than those at the American clinics (17 years) (Caldicott 1997 , 132). She said: “those same co nsultants who had considered a CF clinic an unnecessary luxury were silent when I presented this information to them” (Caldicott 1997 , 132). Because of her persistence, Caldicott was finally given permission to open the clinic, which she did in 1974, becoming its first medical superintendent (Caldicott 1997, 132). During this time, Caldicott also became involved in the political battle against Uranium mining in Australia. Most Australian uranium mines had shut down during the 1960s due to decreased global demand. However, in the early 1970s, a number of the Australian uranium mines reopened, facilitated by the growth in demand for nuclear power, increase in market value of uranium, and the discovery of rich uranium deposits in Australia’s Northern Territory (Martin 1982). Martin said that in 1974, “the general advisability of uranium mining was almost uniformly unquestioned in business and industry, government bureaucracies, political parties, labor unions and the general public” (Martin 1982). Uranium mini ng was delayed, however, until 1979. A number of factors contributed to this delay, including battles over Aboriginal land rights and increasingly strict environmental protection laws, but none so much as the protests of the labor unions (Martin 1982). Caldicott played a significant role in educating labor union members. She spoke to the Trades and Labour Councils, and to the mine workers at the Mary Kathleen uranium mine in Queensland. She appealed directly to the political elite, speaking in private meetings with Jim Cairns, Australia’s deputy prime minister, Rex Connor, the minister for mineral and energy, and Prime Minister Gough Whitlam. At an Australian Pediatric Association meeting, she persuaded almost every doctor present to sign an ad detaili ng the

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124 medical dangers of uranium (Caldicott 1997 , 139). A grass roots organization , The Movement Against Uranium Mining (MAUM), was inaugurated in her North Adelaide dining room (Caldicott 1997 , 140). Despite her efforts, her concerns were often dismissed , and uranium mining began again in Australia in 1979. Caldicott wrote “like Cassandra, I often seem to be the only one imparting a message of dire concern, but because I’m a woman, I’m easy to dismiss as ‘emotional’” (Caldicott 1997 , 137). In 1975, the C aldicott family returned to the United States for a sabbatical year. During this time, Caldicott was propelled into the American political landscape, and redoubled her efforts to fight for a nuclear freeze. Caldicott would go on to become one of the most r ecognizable faces of the anti nuclear movement in the United States after 1975. Her visibility, however, would also make her the subject of intense critique, sexism, and attempts to dismiss and silence her. “Don’t Be So Dramatic!” In 1976, the Caldicott’s move to the United States became permanent. This decision was based in part on McCoy’s statement that “there would not be a full time job for [her] at the hospital because of [her] politics” (Caldicott 1997 , 149). However, Caldicott also sensed that there was a growing role for her in the United States (Caldicott 1997, 149). In the following years, Caldicott was invited to speak, both nationally and internationally, at some of the largest protests and most important meetings facilitated by anti nuclear supporters, including Ralph Nadar’s Critical Mass conference in Washington, DC in 1976. After that, she embarked on a two week speaking tour in California with a group of women from the Creative Initiative Foundation, involved in fighting Proposition 15 in Ca lifornia.32 In 1978, Caldicott published 32 Proposition 15 was a citizens’ referendum that made it on the ballot in the state of California in 1976. It sought to prohibit new nuclear power plant construction and limit existing plant operating capacities in the state, with the

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125 Nuclear Madness, wherein she argued that “nuclear technology threatens life on our planet with extinction” (Caldicott 1978; 1994, 21). The book documents, in alarming and often gruesome detail, the effects of nuclear radiation on human health, and the potential devastation that nuclear power and nuclear war could inflict on the planet. Caldicott also participated in multiple protests at Rocky Flats33 in Denver, Colorado.34 Organized by Pam Solo35 and Mike Jendresick, the march boasted between ten and fifteen thousand participants protesting the manufacturing of plutonium36 triggers for nuclear weapons in the United States. Beginning in 1977, Caldicott received a growing number of speaking invitations outside the Unite d States. She met with other leading women around the world, including Petra Kelley37, Jeanine Honicker38, Randall long term goal of eliminating nuclear power plant operations completely ( “ Proposition 15 Political Reform Act of 1974” 2010). The bill was defeated ‘but the public’s new awareness of the risk s, along with the tremendous costs involved, resulted in no new nuclear plant being built in the U.S. since that time’ ( “ Foundation for Global Community ” n.d. ). 33 A fire at the plant in 1969 “ consumed two tons of plutonium ” and caused “ thirty to forty fou r pounds of respirable plutonium [to escape] and contaminated parts of Denver sixteen miles away ” (Caldicott 1978 , 81) . See “ Rocky Flats Site Colarado, Regulatory Documents” (2018) for all regulatory documents. 34 Caldicott recorded at least one of the dat es in her book, A Desperate Passion (1997) as 29 April 1977, but the first major march at Rocky flats did not take place until 1978. More likely, she was writing about the 28 April 1979 March, which boasted between 10,000 and 15,000 participants, but she d oes write that she participated in multiple protests ( see Caldicott 1997 , 157, 175). Caldicott did speak at the protest in 1979, calling the plant “ a death machine ” ( “ Rocky Flats Nuclear Plant / Protest #263456” 1979. ). 35 Pam Solo (1946 ) is a nun living in Denver, Colorado. Pam was codirector of the Nuclear Weapons Facilities Task Force and a leader in the Nuclear Weapons Freeze Campaign. See Ackland ( 2002) for more details. 36 Plutonium (Pu) is a radioactive chemical e lement. Two plutonium isotopes, plutonium 239 and plutonium 241 are used in nuclear fission and the making of nuclear weapons. Plutonium 239 has a half life of 24,110 years and emits alpha radiation which, if breathed in or ingested, is highly dangerous an d carcinogenic ("Physical, Nuclear, and Chemical Properties of Plutonium" 2012 ). Plutonium 241 decays, after a half life of 14 years, to Americium 241, with a half life of 432 years, and is also an alpha emitter ( "Physical, Nuclear, and Chemical Properties of Plutonium" 2012). 37 See Caldicott ( 1997, 158 5 9) . 38 See Caldicott ( 1997, 163) .

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126 Fosberg39, Judy Lipton40, Dorothy Robertson41 and Margaret Mead42 and appeared on television alongside people like Jane Fonda43, Sally Fields, and Meryl Streep, who later said “Helen Caldicott has been my inspiration to speak out” (Caldicott 1997, 246). Importantly, in 1978, Caldicott met Dr. Ira Helfand. During their m eeting Caldicott told Helfand that “the problem is that I get dismissed as this crazy Australian woman. What we need is an organization of doctors and they won’t be able to dismiss us so lightly”. 44 Caldicott and Helfand, along with psychiatrist Eric Chivean facilitated a meeting of physicians and founded an organization of medical professionals who would promote the dangers of nuclear power. During one of the meetings, Dr. Richard Feinbloom recommended that the group adopt the name and the 501(c)(3) o f a previous organization called Physicians for Social Responsibility (PSR), which had dissolved in 1973. The group took out an ad in the New England Journal of Medicine which serendipitously “ran two days after Three Mile Island, and the organization memb ership grew from a couple of hundred to five thousand in under a week.” 45 In summer 1979, the PSR board members met with Bernard Lown, a prominent cardiologist, and the founder of the former C hapter of PSR. Taking Lown’s advice, the board decided to shift the focus of PSR from nuclear weapons to nuclear war. They organized a number of symposia and built the membership up to around 15,000 members over the course of the next decade. Caldicott was elected the first 39 Swedish Institute for Peace Research in Stockholm, MIT – Nuclear Freeze . 40 Target Seattle ( Caldicott 1997 , 196) . 41 A speaker at the 1979 Rocky Flats march in Denver, CO (C aldicott 1997 , 175). 42 See Caldicott ( 1997, 164 6 5) . 43 On 6 May 1979 in Washington, D.C. 44 All quotes in this Chapter attributed to Helfand and otherwise uncited are from an interview with him (via telephone) conducted by the author, Amanda M. Nichols, on 20 February 2020. 45 In Dauphin County, Pennsylvania on 28 March 1979.

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127 president, and under her leadership PSR woul d go on to start a nation wide education campaign, fundraising nearly $3 million a year (Caldicott 2009 [1992] , 217). Helfand said that as Helen “became something of a media storm” she “spoke tirelessly for PSR, recruiting new members and building the orga nization .” Caldicott called 1979 a “turning point in [her] life” as she became increasingly involved in the anti nuclear movement (Caldicott 1997, 181). On 3 January 1979 she spoke in Detroit at a conference of Catholic Bishops. Caldicott said that even though the Catholic Church had traditionally been “conservative and anticommunist” she found it to be a “flexible institution” and said that “some members of the hierarchy were in fact revolutionary thinkers” (Caldicott 1997, 164). The Catholic Church in the United States would go on to play a pivotal role in the halting the nuclear arms race. In March she went to Hawaii to participate as a witness in a legal battle between Catholic Action and the U.S. Navy (Caldicott 1997, 167).46 Before she left, organizer Jim Albertini slipped her a paper written by investigative journalist Howard Moreland which contained a description of how to make an atomic bomb and a detailed list of U.S. corporations involved in the manufacture of nuclear weapons (Caldicott 1997, 167). Moreland was barred from publishing the piece in the United States, so Albertini asked Caldicott if she would try to get it published in Australia. When she did, the FBI caught wind of her involvement. Though she met with the FBI later that year, the case was eventually dropped (Caldicott 1997 , 178). She also spoke to a number of indigenous groups that year including the Navajo in Grants, New Mexico. Of her experience there, Caldicott recalled: I couldn’t express my grief: we were killing these beautiful, innocent people, we were raping their land, ignoring their spirituality in favour of building bombs to blow up the earth for money. I no longer had any words, and began to weep. I 46 See also “ Catholic Action of Hawaii ” (1979).

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128 have never cried like that before or since while on the platform. (Caldicot t 1997, 176) On 6 May 1979 Caldicott participated in a protest in Washington, D.C. organized by Mobilization for Survival. She and Dr. Ben jamin Spock carried a “black coffin symbolizing irradiated dead babies” as they “marched down Pennsylvania Avenue fro m the White House to the Congress, surrounded by singing children” (Caldicott 1997, 176). She visited Hiroshima Peace Park on 6 August 1979 and Nagasaki a few days later and addressed large congregations of Japanese citizens commemorating the bombings. On 18 September 1979, Caldicott participated as part of a delegation formed by the American Friends Services Committee (AFSC) in the Soviet Union (Caldicott 1997, 183). While there, she took the health officer at Novovoronezh nuclear power plant to task, conf ronting him about the plants’ radiation emissions, which he denied existed. “When he was accused of lying” Caldicott said, “he became so furious that he stormed out of the room” (Caldicott 1997 , 184). While in the USSR, Caldicott met with a number of high ranking political officials including Mikhail Morosov, the deputy director of the International Atomic Energy Agency (IAEA) , and Ambassador I.G. Usachev of the USSR Foreign Ministry. Usachev urged Caldicott and the delegation to “concentrate on alerting public opinion to the dangers of [the United States’] new aggressive policy” which would place two types of nuclear missiles across Europe, armed for nuclear war (Caldicott 1997 , 18687). Usachev and the USSR government advocated a full nuclear freeze and promoted the idea of a SALT III treaty47 that would bring a global end to the production of nuclear weapons (Caldicott 1997, 187). 47 At the time they were arguing the SALT II treaty with the United States. Salt II, or the Strategic Arms Limitation Talks wer e signed on 18 June 1979 by President Jimmy Carter and Leoind Brezhnev (USSR). SALT II limited the number of strategic launchers and inter continental ballistic missiles (ICBMs) to 2,400 weapons each. The previous SALT I treaty was signed on 26 May 1972 by President Richard Nixon and Brezhnev and limited the number of anti ballistic missiles (ABMs) each country could possess. See “ Strategic Arms Limitation Talks ” (2020 ).

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129 Caldicott’s public profile continued to grow in the early 1980s . In June 1982, Caldicott spoke at the protest in Central Park in New York City where over a million people were present. On 7 December 1983, Caldicott entered a private meeting with President Ronald Reagan and his daughter, Patti Davis. Caldicott describe d Reagan as “a nice old man who didn’t have a grip on things” (Caldicott 1997, 270) and wrote that he was dismissive of evidence, told her that she was being “manipulated” by Communists, and cited information he had read in Reader’s Digest as authoritative source material (Caldicott 1997 , 261 66). Reagan’s solution to ending the threat of nuclear war during the Cold War was to expand the United States nuclear weapons arsenal. Despite this, Congress voted on 4 May 1983 in favor of a freeze resolution, an ini tiative organized by Congressman Ed Markey and Caldicott (Caldicott 1997, 266). Despite the successes that she helped to facilitate for the anti nuclear movement during the 1970s and 1980s, Caldicott continued to face backlash from colleagues and severe s exism from the media. In a broadcast interview with ABC radio in Adelaide, for instance, Caldicott felt that the female interviewer favored the male “nuclear expert” that she was debating and failed to give her equal time to speak and respond (Caldicott 1997, 169; Benjamin 1981).48 After the partial meltdown of the nuclear reactor at Three Mile Island, Caldicott said that she knew her book, Nuclear Madness “was more important than ever and that it should be distributed as widely as possible” (Caldicott 1997, 173). However, her publisher was “oddly reluctant to reprint to meet the demand” and when she requested that the book be sent to Harrisburg by the truckload, the publisher refused (Caldicott 1997, 173). In order to reclaim the rights to her book, as well as to future publications, Caldicott was forced to take the publisher to court, endured a lengthy legal battle, and spent nearly $60,000 (Caldicott 1997, 173). Another instance of 48 The video footage in Benjamin 1981 confirms her account.

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130 backlash against Caldicott came while she was in Russia in 1979. The delega tion met with a group of doctors to facilitate the inception of a Soviet branch of PSR. Caldicott said: I was so anxious to get my point across and I was the only doctor in the [delegation] that one of our delegates, Marta Daniels, later admonished me fo r “dominating” the meeting. The others agreed with her, or at least they stayed silent and by their silence assented (Caldicott 1997 , 188). Caldicott described several other instances of media sexism, including an interview with Chicago TV where a retired military general became aggressive toward her and “turned scarlet with fury” when she told him “I fucking want my kids to grow up” (Caldicott 1997, 245). Caldicott remarked later that, “this man could talk coldly and clinically about nuclear war, but when a woman said ‘ fuck’ to him, he was undone” (Caldicott 1997, 245). Her biggest challenges, however, were yet to come. “Don’t Let Them See You Cry” In 1980, Dr. Bernard Lown invited a group of doctors, including Caldicott, Eric Chivean, and Jim Muller to his home. Lown announced that he wanted to begin an international organization that would incorporate all U .S. national medical groups as well as Soviet groups committed to speaking out against nuclear war. They agreed on the name International Physicians fo r the Prevention of Nuclear War (IPPNW). Caldicott had, for over a decade, been speaking to groups around the world, facilitating this conversation, and already had extensive networks built especially with the USSR. Only a week after the meeting at Lown’s home, however, Jim Muller contacted her, and said “Helen Bernard Lown doesn’t consider that you’reappropriate to be involved in the IPPNW organization” (Caldicott 1997, 224). When she pressed Muller, he “couldn’t or wouldn’t give [her] a straight answer” as to why she was not to be included (Caldicott 1997, 225). She felt that it was “inappropriate for [Lown] to take on the mantle of international organizer of the medical community” that she and others had “conceived

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131 and developed” (Caldicott 1997, 225). She recalled “feeling uneasy about confronting” Lown, who was a “distinguished Harvard faculty member who was [her] senior” (Caldicott 1997 , 224). IPPNW was officially founded in Geneva in 1980 by a group of seven men including U .S. doctors Bernard Lown, H ames Muller, Eric Chivian, and Herb Abrams and Soviet doctors Eugueni Chazov, Leonid Ilyin, and Mikhail Kuzin. Caldicott was not included in the invitation (Milestones 2017). Helfand said: PSR initially declined to join the organization because of concerns about the role of the Soviet doctors in the group. There was the perception that we were going to be working with, what would essentially be, a fronted organization for the Soviet government. Chazov had said that he would have 200,000 pledged members for the organization, and we were all worried about where the money was coming from. Another blow came for Caldicott in April 1982 at the second IPPNW meeting in Cambridge, England. While talking to a group of Swedish doctors, Caldicott learned that Lown was jockeying for the Nobel Peace Prize. I was startled. Were they serious?... As doctors, we were doing this work for humanity, not for Nobel Prizes. And Lown had done nothing in terms of education or activism [and] most of the national groups had been star ted either directly because of Claire Ryle and me or because they were emulating the successful PSR model . (Caldicott 1997, 269) Later that year, a rift began to develop in PSR. Because both PSR and IPPNW were housed in Boston, they were now in competition for funding in the U.S . “Animosity infiltrated the PSR board” Caldicott wrote, but many of them were “reluctant to say anything ,” despite feeling like they “were being bullied by IPPNW ,” because they wer e colleagues of Lown (Caldicott 1997, 230). At IPPNW’s first World Congress, held in Airlie, Virginia in 1981, Lown gave a speech taking credit for the work of PSR (Caldicott 1997, 230). Caldicott described it as “somewhat unnerving” and said that “Lown dominated the proceedings, with Chazov and the Soviet delegation sitting at his right” (Caldicott 1997 , 230).

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132 In January 1982, Caldicott was unanimously re elected as the president of PSR. Following that vote, Caldicott said that Jack Geiger became outspoken against her (Caldicott 1997, 27273). On 3 November 1982, PSR held an executive committee meeting in Boston. Caldicott said that “almost immediately” after the meeting began, Geiger proposed “to move the office of president downwards and laterally to the equivalent of the executive director – in other words to subst antially diminish the office” (Caldicott 1997 , 273). Caldicott described Geiger’s actions as a “hostile act, directed solely at me” and said she, and the rest of the board, “were shaken” (Caldicott 1997, 273). After an extensive debate, Geiger’s plan was vetoed, but Caldicott said that the trust between the board members “had been shattered” (Caldicott 1997 , 274). A short time later, Geiger demanded that her speeches be vetted, because “as the president of PSR [she] spoke for the membership” (Caldicott 1997 , 277). Caldicott resisted, telling the PSR board “if you clip my wings, I’ll flee” (Caldicott 1997, 277). In January 1983, PSR formally joined IPPNW. Helfand described the roots of the tension about Caldicott’s presentations: The issue was that her styl e was more popular, and less scholarly than some of the doctors felt comfortable with. We were working within the medical community and people wanted to make sure this was seen as a mainstream medical message, not as an activist political group. But to bui ld a movement you have to reach beyond the people who come to a detailed seminar and you need to motivate people and mobilize them. And Helen was just wonderful at doing that, but in the process, she came across to some people as not as rigorously scienti fic as PSR wanted to be. He continued: Helen was very emotional at times, her speeches were not the kind of dry emotionless speeches that we are used to in the medical community and it worked, for many audiences, including many medical audiences. And I think it drove some of the doctors crazy [that] after hearing her speak people would jump up at the end and sign up for life to join the movement. I think that was difficult for some of the more academic voices in the organization to understand

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133 and accept . She was incredibly successful. But she was using an approach that was different from theirs different from the one accepted . Susan Gross and Karl Mathiason, the directors of the Planning and Management Assistance Project, came to observe PSR and, in June 1983, asked Caldicott to lunch to discuss their findings. Caldicott said “with tears in her eyes, Susan suddenly said: ‘You are too important a leader in the peace movement to have to endure attacks from Jack Geiger. You should leave PSR’” (Caldicott 1997, 285). Retrospectively, Caldicott said she now realizes “that she need not have accepted the report” but that, at the time, her “ability to analyze, let alone act on [her] best instincts, was . . . severely depleted .” The Gross report from Planning and Management Assistant Project stated of Caldicott that: Her vision, her creativity, her commitment, her ability to inspire and activate, her brilliant intuitive sense of strategy, and her drive to achieve what at first seems impossible have been a key fac tor in the organization’s success and a major reason why the organization has come so far so quickly. (Caldicott 1997 , 285) It also said however, that “in any organization’s life a point is reached where a charismatic leader can become overpowering rathe r than empowering” (Caldicott 1997, 285). The report added that “frequently, charismatic leaders’ contributions to the growth and development of an organization are not acknowledged” but Caldicott maintains that if “Jack Geiger had not sown seeds of doubt, most members of the board would have continued to support her (Caldicott 1997, 286). Caldicott’s forced removal exemplifies the internal discord of the organization and a clear dissatisfaction with her continued leadership, commonly referred to as “ founde rs’ syndrome .” At the next annual board meeting, Caldicott invited the members to voice their opinions of her (Caldicott 1997, 287). She said that she knew going into the meeting that she “was about to participate in her own execution” and that “under the circumstances [she] had only one option” (Caldicott 1997, 287). Caldicott resigned as president of PSR in 1983, and shortly

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134 thereafter, in 1984 from the PSR Board of Directors. Judy Lipton was the only board member to voice her continued support of Caldicott, saying “Helen has labored under the burden of organizational responsibility, and now it is important to see whether we can move with her at her pace. If we did, PSR would be immeasurably strengthened” (Caldicott 1997, 287). Reflecting on the events dur ing our interview, Caldicott said that Geiger was “manipulative, using the modus operandi of society to put women down.” Shortly after Caldicott left PSR, an anonymous revisionist history was mailed out to all the members. [It] stat[ed] that the movement began in 1961, founded by Lown, Geiger, Sidel, and Alexander, and had been in continuous operation ever since. I was not a part of the revisited history, and neither were most of the people who had done the pioneering work of the new PSR . (Caldicott 1997, 29091) In 1985, at the IPPNW conference in Budapest, Dr. Victor Sidel introduced PSR, giving the revised history of the organization. Later that day, Caldicott was introduced by Dr. Henry Abraham who “studiously avoided any mention of [her role in] the h istory of the physicians’ movement” (Caldicott 1997 , 292). Still today, Caldicott is not represented as part of the historical legacy of PSR on the organizations’ website (PSR). Instead, the organizations founding date is listed as 1961, and the contributi ons of doctors Victor Sidel, Jack Geiger, and Bernard Lown are celebrated. In our interview, Helfand confirmed that the 1979 PSR group was “started independently of the original one .” John Humphrey’s “The Development of the Physicians’ Peace Movement” is, as far as I have found, the only comprehensive historical account of the inception of the Physician’s movement. Therein, Humphrey wrote that PSR “was set up by a small group of physicians in Boston” in 1961, and that it was “reinvigoratedby a small group of physicians stirred to action by Dr. Helen Caldicott” in 1979 (Humphrey 2009, 295). There is no mention of

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135 her role in the inception of IPPNW. Accounts of Caldicott’s involvement in both PSR and IPPNW abound; however, they vary in detail and accuracy. For instance, Sidney Alexander wrote: [PSR’s] rebirth beginning in 1978 occurred chiefly through the efforts of Helen Caldicott, MD, aided by a cadre of previous PSR members, Vic Sidel prominent among them, and a new generation of antinuclear physicians . ( Alexander 2012, 125) Alexander, however, failed to distinguish the independent formation of Caldicott’s group and recorded that after the members of the original PSR group “actively dwindled” the organization was “kept alive” by Richard Feinbloom (Alexander 2012, 125). Moreover, there is no mention that Caldicott was involved in any way with the inception of IPPNW, and the article mostly focuses on the contributions of Lown, Geiger, and Sidel in the two organizations (Alexander 2012). In fact, reflecting o n the decision to adopt the name of the previous organization, Caldicott said, it “proved to be a grave mistake” because it was the reason her role in founding the organization has been disputed (Caldicott 1997, 160) Most mentions of the physicians’ moveme nts in anti nuclear histories do attribute credit to Caldicott for involvement in PSR, but they also portray her role as being the leader of the ‘revived’ or ‘resurrected’ PSR.49 This description diminishes, and in many cases omits entirely, her role as organizer of what was, at its inception, a separate organization from the original PSR, and deprives her of the full credit she deserves. Moreover, the acts of Lown, Sidel, and Abr aham effectively functioned as attempts to remove her from the history of the organization, and thus diminished the visibility of her contributions. In her dissertation, Leah Hanes quoted nuclear engineer Arnie Gunderson who 49 See for instance Maar ( 201 9 , 401), Joppke ( 1993 , 148), Cavin ( 2002 , 103104), Cavin, Hale, and Cavin ( 2002), Hogan ( 1994, 62), and Meyer ( 1990 , 102). The only account that I have found which accurately called Caldicott the founder of PSR, and clearly showed that the previous PSR gr oup was “dormant” before she “revived it” is Harvey ( 2018, 102). Whiteley noted that she was the President of PSR, but also depicted her as a cofounder of IPPNW, a role which she has never been credited with by the organization (Whiteley 2007, 288).

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136 said about Caldicott that “the (nuclear) industry is very effective at silencing voices of discontent” (Hanes 2015 , 89). But this is more than an act of silencing – this is also an act of rendering Caldicott invisible, an act of erasure. The writers of history who silence voices create a legacy of (in)visibility in that, by silencing, they also effectively erase persons or groups from visibility in future generations. On 11 November 1985, the Norwegian Nobel Committee announced the winner for the 1985 Nobel Peace Prize (see “Nobel Peace Prize Winner 1985” 2017) . Despite being nominated, Caldicott did not receive the award. IPPNW, the organization that Bernard Lown had forced her out of only three years earlier, won the prize. To add insult to injury, Lown wrote to Caldicott “thanking [he r] for [her] work and inviting [her] to attend” (Caldicot 1997 , 293). She declined. Helfand said that IPPNW “won the Nobel Peace Prize because of this model of U .S . and Soviet doctors working together. The issue was though that the U .S . doctors, PSR, was not quite fully a part of IPPNW even after we joined .” Moreover, he recounted, there was a group of Boston doctors that worked with Lown that formed the more officia l coalition of American doctors of IPPNW and “there was never really anyone from PSR represented on the board of IPPNW until 1992 – it was always somebody from Boston .”50 In our interview, Helfand said, “many people felt that Helen should have either won t he prize that year or that it should have been awarded jointly to IPPNW and Helen.” He went on to say that personally he felt that Caldicott “should have been invited to Oslo and should have been honored there” and “that it is a mistake that she wasn’t .” H elfand explained his sentiment saying: [Caldicott] played an important role in building IPPNW. She did a lot of traveling in Europe and inspired a lot of Physicians there to get active. Many of the IPPNW 50 Hel fand became the first board member of IPPNW from PSR in 1992 and has been the copresident of IPPNW since 2012. He continue d to serve on the board of directors for PSR as the cochair of the Nuclear Weapons Abolition Committee in 2021.

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137 affiliates from Europe and around the world call the mselves PSR in response to the fact that they were organized or created by Helen and they model themselves on the U .S . group. She played an important role in building that network. With some reservation, Helfand admitted that Caldicott’s gender may have contributed to the way she was treated: There was a strong patriarchal structure in the medical community, and it may have played a role in Helen’s experience. Helen was viewed with some of the stereotypes that people then and now portray women in science – not quite serious, too emotional – those types of stereotypes were applied to Helen so yes, the fact that she was a woman may have played a rol e . “Boys Will Be Boys” Caldicott still blames herself for the injustices enacted against her by Lown and Geig er. She lamented giving “too much power and credibility to a distinguished Harvard professor” and said , “I should have written to all my membersand said it’s either me or Geiger” but “I was still evolving and by being passive I allowed them to put me down.” Of Lown, she said “I should have marched into his lab and said ‘How dare you do this! How dare you extricate me from the organization that I created! This is a democratic organization!’ And taken him on full frontal.” In 1987, Caldicott attended the Third International Interdisciplinary Conference on Women, Women’s Worlds, Visions and Revisions at Trinity College in Dublin, Ireland. In her autobiography she described being “jolted” by a workshop: It was a discussion of the feelings of a rape victim: th e loss of self esteem, self blame, concession of power to the rapist, and social ostracism because nobody could identify with her. I recognized all of those feelings within myself. (Caldicott 1997 , 324) During her keynote speech, she described to the audience what had transpired with IPPNW and PSR. “Ever the good girl” she said, “I finished without mentioning the names of the men” who committed what she called “psychological rape” against her (Caldicott 1997 , 324). Caldicott said “a woman in the front row shouted: ‘Name them!’” and despite some trepidation, she did

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138 (Caldicott 1997 , 324). In her autobiography, however, she does not. Mary Olson suggested that this was a strategic move by Caldicott, who was still working in the field, and that it would have m ade it extremely difficult for her to continue her career if she had named them publicly.51 The women’s conference had been a safe place for Caldicott to name her attackers, without threat of retaliation from them or other colleagues. In our interview, Caldicott identified Jack Geiger and Bernard Lown as her attackers. Moreover, she told me that following the Brett Kavanagh trial52 she decided to speak openly to Lown about his attacks against her, and she wrote to both him and the Nobel Prize Committee. Caldicott said: “I found that as I continued to travel to the physicians groups, that [Lown] had been denigrating me to the members” and had “effectively marginalized me on [his] egocentric mission .”53 In her letter to Lown, Caldicott wrote: I learnedthat you were actively promoting IPPNW for the Nobel Prize. At the time, I had already been nominated by Linus Pauling for the prize and he told me not to lobby for the pr ize as the committee didn’t like that. It was some years later when I met the woman in Norway who proudly told me that for several years you provided her with material which she duly delivered routinely to the committee as you actively lobbied yourself for the prize. I naturally and naively thought that the committee would do due diligence and research [about] who created the quite vast organization of doctors. And here’s where you had the ace up your sleeve, you knew Yevgeniy Chazov as a fellow cardiologis t. We were told that he was the personal physician to the Soviet leaders, including Brezhnev, and then Andropov, and Gorbechev. We were not told that Chazov was a prominent member of the politburo, one of the top 5 men in the USSR. The USSR was an authorit arian state and when Chazof affiliated with IPPNW it was stated that all Soviet doctors belonged to IPPNW. This was not a freely evolving organization of Soviet doctors. It was an authoritarian mandate, and the physicians fell into line. They had no choice . Suddenly the USSR had the largest anti nuclear war physician’s 51 All quotes in this Chapter attributed to Olson and otherwise uncited are from an interview with her (via telephone) conducted by the author, Amanda M. Nichols, on 24 January 2020. 52 In 2018, Brett Kavanaugh was nominated by U.S. President Donald Trump for the position of Associate Justice of the Supreme Court. Before he was confirmed, Dr. Christine Blasey Ford accused Kavanaugh of sexual assault, and two other women came forward with accusations of sexual misconduct. During a hearing of the Senate Judiciary Committee, Kavanaugh denied the allegations. He was confirmed as Associate Justice of the Supreme Court on 6 October 2018 by a vote of 50 to 48. 53 This quote and the following lon g quote both come from personal correspondence from Helen Caldicott to Bernard Lown, shared with the author, Amanda M. Nichols, via email on 12 February 2020.

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139 organization in the world. It was just a decree, a fait accompli. What a coup d’etat! So Bernard, to be frank, you were a male, actively stole my work and got the prize hung around your neck and to add insult to injury I received a letter thanking me for my work. Men, all men, once again receiving the Nobel for a woman’s work! Intellectual theft and bullying are forms of sexism. [M]y work was stolen[,] and I was shamed and marginalized. Your behavior has had long lasting, damaging fallout. Caldicott later sent the same letter to the Nobel Prize Committee, adding that “as history has shown, it is apparent that many men take advantage of the work and ingenuity of some women’s work and claim i t as their own .”54 Neither Lown nor the Nobel Committee ever responded. PSR and IPPNW were not, however, the only organizations from which Caldicott was forcibly removed. Mary Olson, who was a board member of STAR, said that Caldicott was also “kicked out” of that organization. Olson recounted: I had this consultant calling me who was clearly out for Helen’s head. I ended up resigning from the board. I just didn’t feel that I had the wherewithal to change the outcome, and I didn’t want to be part of it. So, I resigned. And sure enough, Helen was kicked out. I can tell you there was a constellation that included a consultant who was clearly acting either on his own, or someone else’s, behalf to identify Helen as a problem rather than a solution, and t hen her relationship with that organization ended. In 2019, PSR honored Caldicott with the Lifetime Achievement Award. Helfand, who presented the award said during our interview, “as the founding leader [of PSR], Helen was the driving force, an extraordin arily powerful speaker who motivated people like no one else to become active on the issue” of nuclear war. He went on to say, “Helen has done more than any other individual to build PSR as an organization and to build the anti nuclear movement around the world .” Commenting on this award with sadness in her voice, Caldicott said, “I was a pathetic woman. I’m not now. ‘Too Late ,” she cried, and waved her wooden leg.” She reiterated her guilt 54 This quote is from personal correspondence from Helen Caldicott to the Nobel Prize Committee, v ia email on 29 May 2019. Caldicott shared this email with the author, Amanda M. Nichols, via email on 12 February 2020.

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140 multiple times throughout our interview: “what happened to me was partially my fault as a woman, and I am pretty strong, but not strong enough in those days .” In her draft notes for Why Men Kill and Why Women Let Them55, Caldicott wrote that: After half a lifetime spent grappling with the ramifications of the nuclear age , I have come to realize that none of these effortshave made any appreciable difference to the nuclear politics and ongoing strategies which threaten our very survival. Much like Henny Penny, Caldicott would retreat back to her native Australia, feeling as though her dire warning had not been adequately conveyed. “Believe in Yourself, or No One Else Will” Caldicott was 81 and living in Australia when I interviewed her in 2020. Despite the resistance she has faced throughout her life and career, Caldicot t continues to be active in the anti nuclear movement, speaking out against the continued threat of nuclear power and nuclear war. The question remains, what accounts for her tenacity, her persistence, and her desire to continue the fight despite all that she has been through. Caldicott has said, that as a medical professional, her primary motivation for her work was a desire to protect the world’s children (Caldicott 1986 , 6; Caldicott 1997, 121, 149). But she has also written at length about her love of nature, and the implications of nuclear war on the planet’s life support systems. Caldicott grew up in a nonreligious home. Her father was agnostic, having become “bitter and disillusioned” at the age of 11 as the result of his parent’s divorce (Caldicott 1997, 6). Despite this: From a very early age I dressed myself in my best clothes on Sundays and took myself off to church. Intuitively I knew there was some higher power or a God, but although I tried every neighbourhood denomination, I never found any 55 This quote is from Caldicott’s notes on what was, at the time of our interview, an uncompleted book project, provisionally entitled Wh y Men Kill and Why Women Let Them. Caldicott shared her notes via email with the author Amanda M. Nichols, on 12 February 2020, with permission to quote from it with proper attribution.

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141 evidence, so I gave up the search as a bad job at the age of seven . (Caldicott 1997, 13) In our interview, Caldicott described herself as an atheist and said, “I don’t believe in God, and I don’t believe in life after death” qualifying that the only reaso n that she would “like to think there was life after death was so I could see my father [Philip] in heaven .” But she also identified herself as a Pantheist and said that she “worship[s] nature like the god Pan” and has done so “since [she] was a tiny child .” Caldicott’s use of the term “atheist” is, I think, an acyrologia. Her comments are indicative of disbelief in the god or gods of the world’s major religions, and especially of the Christian God which she was most familiar with. Moreover, her language co nveyed a rejection of the “establishment of religion” in that she is critical of the hegemonic institutionalized views of organized religion. Pantheism is belief, albeit not mainstream, and Caldicott seemed not only to recognize this, but to classify that belief differently than the teachings she defined herself as atheistic toward. She rooted her pantheistic attitude in a childhood spent out of doors, climbing trees and riding her bike, and said that she had always been “fascinated by nature,” often stoppi ng to “smell every flower hanging over the fences” on her way to school. Her understanding and appreciation of nature are also grounded in an evolutionary and ecological perspective on life. She expressed a sense of wonder that, in her view, “we are probab ly the only life in the universe and that evolution has been so absolutely magical to produce this variety of living organisms, and us, it’s just spectacular.” Reinforcing her pantheistic and holistic metaphysics, Caldicott also described herself as having “always been altruistic in nature ,” a trait she understands as having played a significant role in her choice to become a physician. She also recalled in our interview that as a child, she loved the stories of Robin Hood, who stole from the rich and gave to the poor, and the biblical narrative of the Parable of the Good Samaritans from the Gospel of Luke (see also Caldicott 1997 , 28).

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142 Childhood experiences were not the only ones to contribute to Caldicott’s spiritual understandings, however. In 1969, Caldi cott contracted Hepatitis B while drawing blood from a dialysis patient. She became very ill, eventually entering a pre comatose state and her organs began to shut down (Caldicott 1997, 94). After her recovery, Caldicott wrote: I knew I had been saved for a reason. My life in a strange way almost didn’t belong to me anymore. I felt that I would be called to act in service, not to myself or even my family, but to something greater . (Caldicott 1997, 96) Many years later, Caldicott articulated similar sentiments. I saw that I was part of a larger plan. My soul had a specific destiny, and if I used this newfound knowledge it would, of necessity, bring a new dimension to my work. (Caldicott 1997 , 351) I t is important to note that Caldicott’s language in these two quotes (written in her autobiography in 1997) are indicative of a sense of divine agency at work in her life. Whether she conceived of this divine agency as pantheistic at the time, or as someth ing else, is unclear. However, it does point toward an understanding of individuals’ religious and spiritual beliefs as fluid and in constant negotiation, often changing over time. In her activist work, Caldicott often appealed to her audience’s religious sentiments to make her message more powerful. She said, for instance, that when she spoke to audiences that were more politically conservative, she would “quote freely from the New Testament” because “anyone who supported the universal principles of love, compassion, and responsibility for life on earth – the principles Jesus Christ espoused – could not possibly be in favour of nuclear war” (Caldicott 1997, 212, 228). In her own writings, Caldicott also often used religious language to describe the work th at she did. She said, for instance, that she would “preach the message whenever and wherever [she] could” (Caldicott 1997 , 175) and that she “felt that God was on [her] side when [she] spoke from the pulpit” (Caldicott 1997 , 229). Multiple times in A Desperate Passion she wrote that

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143 “fate” guided her life in various ways (see Caldicott 1997 , 124, 143). Like her mother, she said, she developed a political intuition that was never wrong and called her own predictions “prophetic” (Caldicott 1992; 2009, 25). Moreover, in my interview with her, Caldicott referred to herself as a “prophet ,” and the “bringer of a message ,” qualifying that she is a “prophet not recognized in [her] own land.” Others have also described Caldicott using religious language, not all of it positive. Steve Nemeth called her a “saint” (Hanes 2015 , 100), for example, but J. Michael Hogan derogatorily compared her to Jonathan Edwards56, called her the “tent revivalist” of the nuclear freeze movement, and described her “preaching with fire and brimstone fury to millions of Americans” (Hogan 1994, 61). Cavin, Hale, and Cavin (2002) argued that Caldicott used symbolism in her counterhegemonic rhetoric, including the use of religious language, to convey her message to the audience. Although the y contended that her message was “ineffective” (Cavin, Hale, and Cavin 2002, 244) they also said “Caldicott defines herself as a deity when she speaks of being the ‘lifegiver’ and ‘healer’ both to Physicians for Social Responsibility, to her followers in the peace movement, and ultimately to the Earth” (Cavin, Hale, and Cavin 2002: 252). Moreover, they noted that she claimed to “have the Truth ,” and drew on the JudeoChristian metaphor of herself as sacrificial victim “willing to ‘die for the children’” – the “most important ‘child’” being the Earth (Cavin, Hale, and Cavin 2002, 252). Intertwined within her message, however, was religious naturalism, or, as Caldicott said, the idea that “the life process was something to be revered as God’s creation” (Caldi cott 1997, 56 Johnathan Edwards (1703 1758) was a Protestant theologian and reviva list preacher in Massachusetts who played an important role in the First Great Awakening. His most famous sermon, “Sinner’s in the Hands of an Angry God” (1741) was known for its dramatic and terrifying depictions of the fiery Hell that awaits unrepentant sinners.

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144 229). Moreover, in If You Love This Planet , Caldicott went further and condemned anthropocentrism: I refuse to contemplate a world devoid of diverse life forms. Is our development so important and sacrosanct that we must destroy all other species in our drive toward domination of the planet? Such behavior is anthropocentric. Let us instead develop a sense of humility and a deep love for our fellow creatures recognizing that their value is equal to our own. (Caldicott 2009 [1992] , 144) It is tha t love, Caldicott said, which is the prescription to the healing of our “terminally ill” planet (Caldicott 1986 [1984] , 304). Unless we connect directly with the Earth, we will not have the faintest clue why we should save it. To feel the pulse of life, we need to spend days hiking in the forests surrounded by millions of invisible insects and thousands of birds and the wonder of evolution. Only if we understand the beauty of nature will we love it, and only if we become alerted to learn about the planet’s disease processes can we decide to live our lives with a proper sense of ecological responsibility . (Caldicott 1986 [1984] , 23536) Caldicott’s religious naturalism, and her vision of how to save the planet are also directly informed by the legac ies of (in)visibility that have shaped her life. Informed by her own experiences as a woman who was often demeaned and dismissed because of her emotion, passion, and gender, Caldicott underscored the importance of empowered women in the fight to save the p lanet. Women who maintain their intrinsic feminine qualities are the women that the world desperately needs. Women must also give credit to their own intellectual abilities[and] assume our place in the political sun and take over the job of helping to st eer the planet toward a safe future for our children . (Caldicott 2009 , 241) More than that, however, she emphasized individual power and emotional engagement with the plight of the natural world, entreating men to join WAND as well, and to be “courageous enough to speak the truth with a passion rarely heard in the corridors of political power orcorporate power” (Caldicott 2009, 242). “The world,” she continued, “needs our Godgiven talents –

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145 whatever they may be – and if we all decide to become autonomous and powerful in our own right, we will save the Earth” (Caldicott 2009 , 248). Though much of her perspective coheres with, and could be classified as, essentialist ecofeminism, Caldicott gave no indication that she is aware of ecofeminist discourses. Desp ite this, women in Caldicott’s view have the capacity to change the world. In her musings about Why Men Kill and Why Women Let Them , Caldicott reiterated that “womenhold the golden key to survival” and added that “women have the power, courage and passion to save the human race and to restrain and discipline its aggressive and violent instincts in the nuclear age .” When we spoke, I found Caldicott passionate, direct, and sharpwitted, though it was easy to see how she might rub some people the wrong way. She was calculating, cynical, and most of her responses seemed almost scripted, or at the very least well rehearsed. When talking about her own work, she was eloquent and passionate. When she spoke of her family, the depth of her love and passion for prot ecting them was of the utmost importance to her. Her children, and now her grandchildren, have been a primary motivating factor for her continued anti nuclear work. There were moments when Caldicott was vulnerable, and though she kept her emotions in check , her voice belied the pain she felt reflecting on many of the more painful memories of her life. At other times in our interview, however, she came across as condescending and grandiose, and as having a sense of self importance, that some might call “infl ated .” It was often hard to pin her down: her tendency to evade questions by transitioning the conversation to rhetoric she was clearly more comfortable with , was indicative of a lifetime spent fashioning her public persona for the media. Many have been cr itical of Caldicott over the years, but that seems to be because, like many other women, she has been seen as “too much”: too emotional, too passionate, too smart, and too “out of place” according to the dictates of the society in which she lived. It is

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146 th erefore understandable, in my opinion, that she is often guarded and chooses to revert to conveying information rather than speaking about her own experiences and emotions. As an exceptionally visible woman in the public eye, Caldicott faced hostility, envy, sexism, and misogyny throughout her life and career. These experiences were often, perhaps ironically, invisible, and they had longlasting negative consequences for Caldicott. But these experiences also informed who she is. They empowered her to work harder, to fight back, to challenge the status quo, and to persist despite the consequences. Through the life story of Helen Caldicott, we can begin to understand how legacies of (in)visibility are at work in the lives of women and how they inform women’s l ived experiences, religious and spiritual beliefs, and environmental action.

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147 CHAPTER 6 “GOODNIGHT, MR. DINGELL”: ON MARY OLSON AND NUCLEAR WASTE Figure 61: A Portrait of Mary Olson at work in 2012.1 Walking toward congressman John Dingle , the Democratic Representative from Michigan, in the nearly deserted corridor in the Rayburn House Office Building that evening, Mary Olson felt invisible, as he ignored her very presence. As he walked by, she pivoted, falling in step beside him. “I know just about everything that I want to know, except for what John Dingell thinks about consolidated storage of nuclear waste in Nevada,” she said. Silence. She pressed on: “The people that I work with in Michigan want the nuclear waste out of the Great Lakes, but they only want the waste to be moved once. They want it to go to a permanent facility .” More silence. As they reached the elevator doors, he walked in and as is customary in 1 Image provided by Mary Olson.

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148 an elevator, turned around, facing her, still silent. “Goodnight, Mr. Dingell ,” she said. The elevator doors closed. Six weeks later at a hearing on the proposed changes to laws of nuclear waste storage, Democrat Representative Dingell thwarted efforts by his Republican party adversaries to change the deadline for federal n uclear waste storage. During the hearing, Dingell looked up and caught Olson’s eye from across the room. He winked, acknowledging through his gesture her visibility and her influence – but only privately. To everyone else, Mary Olson remained invisible.2 Olson’s Early Life – Gendered Norms in the Household Mary Carol Olson was born on 10 May 1958 in Los Angeles, California, the third daughter of Dorothy and Ben Olson. Like Caldicott, Olson’s youth was shaped, in part, by the legacies of (in)visibility imparted by the dictates of patriarchal culture. The myth of the feminine mystique played a prominent role Dorothy’s life and would also impact Olson’s childhood experience. Dorothy Olson (henceforth I will refer to her as Dorothy to distinguish her from he r daughter Mary, whom I will refer to by her family name) was raised primarily by her grandmother in Milwaukie, Wisconsin where her grandfather was a state senator, and she grew up in a fairly affluent home. Like many other women of the time, she was confi ned by the social norms of early twentieth century America. “My mother was a very strong and smart female in our society in the first half of the 20th century,” Olson explained. After her first year at Beloit College, Dorothy was forced to drop out due to her father’s failing health and the family’s financial difficulties. Dorothy began working to help support the family, and “was doing so well 2 All quotations in this Chapter that are not cited from published sources are from author interviews with Mary Olson that were conducted by telephone on 15 August 2019; 20 August 2019; 27 August 2019; 24 January 2020; 9 April 2020 ; and 23 February 2021 and from email correspondence that took place on 27 August 2019; 10 April 2020; 24 June 2020; 26 June 2020 ; and 17 February 2021.

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149 in the job” Olson said, “that her boss told her to be careful or she would never get a husband because she was too smart.” Dorothy met Ben Olson while attending Beloit College, and they re started a relationship a few years after Dorothy left the school. My father fell in love with my mother, and there is no doubt about that. But I think my mother was fearing for any sort of relationship at all and so I am not sure that my father brought everything she needed. But on the other hand, they complimented each other very, very welland I experienced the mutuality of their commitment. Despite her situatedness within a stri ct patriarchal culture, throughout her life Dorothy considered herself a feminist. “I was born by natural childbirth ,” Olson said, a “proud thing for my mother” who was “a feminist and a leader in breast feeding and natural childbirth .” Olson was born late into her parents’ relationship, seven years after her next oldest sister. This was due in part, Olson conveyed, to her father’s commitment to zero population growth. Olson’s father, Ben, was a second generation immigrant from Sweden, with some ancestral roots in Mongolia. Ben was also the first of his family to attend college, earning an undergraduate degree from B eloit College in 1938 and subsequently, a master’s degree and a Ph.D. in Biology from UCLA. When the family moved to Illinois when Olson was still an infant, Ben was hired at Shimer College as the head of the department of Natural Sciences. The family moved again in 1964 to Indiana when Ben was hired to run the National Science Foundation Summer Institute, which gave high school biology teachers master’s degrees. He later worked as a biologist at Purdue University in Lafayette, Indiana. Traditional gender roles applied to child rearing in the Olson household. Her father “play[ed] in the realm [her] mother created” in terms of child rearing . Despite these traditional roles, Dorothy enrolled in Shimer College when the family moved to Illinois where she earned her bachelor’s degree in Liberal Arts. Dorothy also enrolled in Perdue University in 1965 and

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150 went on to earn her master’s degree in Child Development and Family Life. Olson’s childhood was formative in the sense that the wisdom imparted from both her par ents played a prominent role in the formation of her own worldview and future career: I often tell people that I am second generation activist. My parents were both humanists and patriots, but they were also activists. They were young adults when things l ike Hiroshima and Nagasaki happened. . . and had their identities formed before the current era . Olson clarified that she was brought up in the tradition of nonviolent activism exemplified by Martin Luther King, Jr. and Mohandas (Mahatma) Gandhi. For her , nonviolent activism includes civil disobedience but not property destruction or actions that endanger human life. She described the type of activism that she was raised and participates in as pro U.S., proUN, and procivil society. At different points in her life and career, Olson has engaged in nonviolent civil disobedience, including road blockades at nuclear facilities and the Savannah River Strike in 2017. And although she has presented her research on nuclear waste as a speaker at Earth First! convergences (in North Carolina and Florida) and has participated in several events and conferences where Earth First! was present, Olson has avowedly distanced herself from the organization, citing differences in values primarily related to Earth First!’s de finition of nonviolence and attitude toward civil society. In addition to nonviolent activism, Olson emphasized her parents’ humanitarian proclivities, and how those informed her own life. Olson’s mother was “deeply dedicated to the United Nations” and f ormed C hapter s of the United Nations Association (UNA) in both Indiana and Illinois. Olson said, “one of the biggest things for my mother was peace and justice, and humanitarian work in the world.” Even more important was that “her message to me from very early on was that the patriarchy oppresses males first, and the most, in order to turn them into oppressors . . . that human beings are not born oppressors .” Olson’s parents were also actively

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151 engaged in community leadership and environmental action. Even more formative for Olson was that her parents discussed global politics, social justice, and environmentalism with their children: The world, the world as a single entity, the world as in the Earth . . . was at our dinner table every night. Nuclear war, c atastrophic climate change, epidemics, how to help the civil rights activists in the south. [We could] ask big questions and be taken seriously. Stuff most kids don’t have. In her own work, the formative teachings of her parents would continue to play an important role. However, another defining experience of Olson’s life and career came in her early twenties. “Don’t Worry Your Pretty Little Head” – About Radiation After attending an experimental program at Thomas Jefferson College3 in Allendale Charter Township in Michigan where she matriculated as a very young student in 1974, Olson attended St. John’s College in Santa Fe, New Mexico for one year, between 1975 and 1976. She returned to Lafayette, Indiana in 1976 and spent a year working as a research a ssistant in the Biology department at P urdue University and decided to study biology. She enrolled in Reed College in Portland, Oregon, and went on to graduate as a dual major with degrees in Biology and History of Science in 1980. In 1984, Olson began working as a researcher in the Department of Pharmacology at Yale University Medical School. She was hired to work on a project involving Tritium (T), a low energy beta emitter in a lab with a graduate student working with Phosphorus 32 (P 32), a radioactive isotope of phosphorus which emits gamma radiation. After only two weeks, Olson came into contact with a petri dish that “had several millicuries of P 32 in it two days earlier.” Millicurie are millions of times higher levels of radioactivity than are allo wed by safety 3 Formally Grand Valley State College and now Grand Valley State University .

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152 standards for safe drinking water. Olson discovered the exposure a week later, by which time it was unequivocal . She recalled finding radioactive hotspots in the laboratory and on her lab coat . When she confronted her boss, who was a professor at the University , he claimed that there must be a problem with the Geiger counter and ordered a new one. When the professor delivered the new Geiger counter to the lab a few days later, it showed even more hotspots. Olson recalled that the professor was dismissive of her concerns and claimed that her Tritium was reading on the Geiger Counter. While her supervisor was on the phone, she used the Geiger counter and found the petri dish in her tools. “It was reading pegged at all levels. So, I put on some gl oves, and put the petri dish in the chute for radioactive waste. Boom. It was gone. Before my boss even got off the phone .” In addition to the radiation exposure in the lab, Olson found that several of her personal belongings at home, including her pillow, glasses, and even her toothbrush had been contaminated, and that she had ingested some level of P 32. While external doses of P 32 can only penetrate skin up to 0.8 cm and are rarely harmful, ingesting P 32 is more dangerous and can lead to physical side effects from radiation exposure. The American Cancer Society lists Phosporus 32 as a known human carcinogen ( “Known and Probable Human Carcinogens” 2020). Olson began to suffer physical side effects soon after her exposure, and they became more pronounced over the next five years. Almost immediately after the incident her back went out, she became chemically sensitive, and she developed allergies she had never had before. Moreover, she had hip pain and difficulty walking for close to five years. When she sp oke with the survivors of Chernobyl and Fukushima several years later, the symptoms that they reported having were remarkably similar to the medical side effects that she endured in the aftermath of her own radiation exposure. In addition to the more immed iate health effects the radiation

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153 exposure caused, Olson would also suffer life long consequences. In the wake of the incident, Olson began losing her menstrual periods. “It took about two to three years for them to be gone entirely, gone for most of the y ear, and then took about a year or so [for them] to come back.” With emotion heavy in her voice she continued, “during that time, it became apparent to me that I could not conscience having a pregnancy. Not only was my cycle all messed up but if something were to be abnormal in the pregnancy, I would never forgive myself .” Aware of the potential implications, Olson: Never had a baby. Never tried to have a baby. Would never have tried to have a baby. There is no point at which an egg that’s been affected would be unaffected. They don’t heal. Once affected always affected and once that decision was made it was a universal decision and I never tried, so I would say that’s really the largest outcome for me. She went on to say, “I had some moments of poignant l oss .” “It wasn’t really an accident It was incompetence and lack of communication ,” she explained. Olson described the “phenomenal level of terror, crisis, [and] paralysis” that she experienced after the incident and recalled that her only desire was to e scape from the situation . Despite having “walked away with a huge dose of PTSD [post traumatic stress disorder] ,” Olson insisted on a positive outlook, and said, “the happy thing is that I continue to live, and I didn’t develop, at least so far, anything t hat was terminal in nature .” And despite her pain, suffering, grief, and loss, Olson also refused to be a victim and walked away from a lawsuit that she had filed. I didn’t want to pursue it because I didn’t want to have to hold a victim’s stance. I didn’ t want to have to prove that what I was going through was due to the exposure. I wanted to recover. I wanted to get my strength back. Despite her desire to recover, Olson said , “I was really feeling lost, overwhelmed, deeply depressed, terrified, [and] polarized with my employment situation” and “[I had] no one to help me with that .” While at the airport bookstore a short time later, Olson came across a copy of

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154 Caldicott’s Nuclear Madness. “In many respects” Olson said, “it was Helen who gave me the courage to heal, to move ahead with my own lifeand, eventually to take positive action— which is the best medicine.” “The book saved my life” Olson said.4 Olson left her position at Yale and retreated to Circle Pines Center in Delton, Michigan, where she would live and work for the next five years. Having spent a large amount of time there in her childhood, Olson said “I needed to recover , and Circle Pines was a safe place for me.” The Center was founded in the 1930s by activists, and the mission remains to promote social justice and environmental stewardship (“Circle Pines” n.d.). While there, Olson worked as the business manager and program coordinator, before eventually becoming the CoDirector. She gained a significant amount of experience about working for 501(c)(3) nonprofit organizations, and developed a skill set that would greatly influence and benefit her future career. She also helped save the Circle Pines Center from financial collapse. While she was still working at the center in the late 198 0s , Olson began to receive a series of envelopes in the mail from an environmental grou p that contained information about the congressional move to deregulate radioactive waste. “Thanks to these three envelopes” Olson said, “my whole life was redirected .” Having herself experienced the detrimental health effects of radioactive waste, Olson w as concerned about the implications of the legislation and felt compelled to do something about it. “I went on a quest” she said, to find the person responsible for sending the alerts in the mail. Olson was advised to contact Diane D’Arrigo, a member of the team at Nuclear Information and Resource Services (NIRS)5 in Washington, D.C. Olson said that 4 For information and resources about radiation emergencies, including radiation contamination or exposure, see “Radiation Emergencies ” ( n.d.). 5 Nuclear Information Resource Services (NIRS ) is a non profit organization in operation in Washington, D.C. that began in 1978, and advocates for a nuclear free planet. See “Nuclear Information Resource Services” ( n.d. ).

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155 Dr. Judith Johnsrud, an activist against nuclear power and nuclear waste whom she had met while working at Circle Pines, “was impressed by [her] and helped enc ourage [her] to pursue this new connection to NIRS .”6 Johnsrud arranged an interview with Michael Mariotte, the Executive Director of NIRS. Olson was hired, and officially joined D’Arrigo’s team at NIRS in March 1991. “Don’t Be So Bossy!” Of “Tigers on Leashes” In 1982, the United States Congress passed the Nuclear Waste Policy Act (NWPA), a bill that supported the construction of geological repositories for the disposal and longterm storage of radioactive nuclear waste, with a process of siteselectio n spelled out .7 In 1987, Representative John Dingell of Michigan was Chair of the House Energy and Commerce Committee.8 Along with a number of other representatives, Dingell decided to speed up that process and “‘screw Nevada’ and center the high level n uclear waste repository program on one site in Nevada for study, instead of [the] originally [proposed] three sites .” This decision was partly based on a personal feud between Dingell and the governor of Nevada, Richard (Dick) Bryan9. Dick [Bryan] was a champion for the environmental community on making cars more efficient. The guy from Detroit [Dingell] didn’t like that. So, part of why Nevada got screwed was because [Dingell] was doing paybacks on Dick Bryan. This is how the world in Congress works. 6 In our interview, Olson said that Johnsrud “ deserves part of this story richl y ” for her own work in the anti nuclear movement in the US. For more information about Johnsrud see “ Obituary for Dr. Judith H. Johnsrud” ( 2014); “ Judith Johnsrud, July 1, 1931 – March 9, 2014” ( 2014); Johnsrud ( 1977). 7 See “ Summary of the Nuclear Waste P olicy Act” (2019 [ 1982]) and Fialka (2009) . 8 For more information see “ House Committee on Energy and Commerce” ( n.d.). 9 Bryan would go on to serve as the US Senator of Nevada from 1989 2001.

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156 An amendment to the bill was proposed in 1987, and sought to establish Yucca Mountain, a geological site in Nevada, as the primary site for nuclear waste storage. At the same time that the debate over the NWPA geological site occurred, the Nuclear Regulatory Commission (NRC) proposed a policy to deregulate certain categories of radioactive nuclear waste to a category entitled “Below Regulatory Concern” (BRC; U.S. Nuclear Regulatory Commission 1991). According to lawyer Karen Geer, this policy, if approved, would have allowed: . . . certain types of radioactive materials to be dumped in ordinary municipal landfills . . . public use . . . of decommissioned, but not necessarily cleaned, nuclear power plants without restriction. . . [and] higher amounts of radioactive substances to be recycled in consumer products . (Geer 2011, 139) Public outrage ensued, and the NWPA and BRC were debated in Congress throughout the 1990s.10 In 1993, the NRC was forced to withdraw the BRC bill. Still today, the U.S. government has been unable to reach a consensus on the establishment of a geological repository for the storage of nuclear waste. These successes are due, in part, to the work of Mary Olson wh o has, until now, remained predominately invisible in the historical record of these events.11 When Olson joined D’Arrigo’s team in 1991, she “helped to push [the BRC] over the top.” At that time, the team had already lobbied effectively to get fourteen states to pass laws that “would require continued regulation of nuclear waste even if the federal government deregulated .” After Olson joined the team, they successfully got a provision added in the Energy Policy Act (EPACT) of 1992 that stat ed: In general No provision of this Act, or of the Low Level Radioactive Waste Policy Act, may be construed to prohibit or otherwise restrict the authority of any 10 For the Congressional Record see Congress ( 1991). For more history of BRC, see Walker ( 2000) and Quinn ( 1990). For a brief description of the public response to the NRC’s proposal, see Walker ( 1993, 5 6 ; 2000, 58). See also Magavern ( 1990). 11 In 1994, Olson gave an interview with Francis and Joanna Macy in which s he discussed her role in helping to overturn the BRC P olicy. The interview was published in the Nuclear Guardianship Forum see Olson ( 1994). Apart from that, I have found no other published information about the events reported here.

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157 State to regulate, on the basis of radiological hazard, the disposal or offsite incineration of low level radioactive waste, if the Nuclear Regulatory Commission, after the date of the enactment of the Energy Policy Act of 1992 exempts such waste from regulation . (“Energy Policy Act” 1992, 381) When the EPACT was passed in 1992, the NRC was forced to withdraw the BRC Policy , which they did officially in 1993 (“N RC Withdraws Below Regulatory Concern Policy Statements” 1993). Olson said, “the lightning bolt of congress hit the NRC exactly where we wanted them to hit it, and we won.” “The win ,” she said, “was just remarkable” and was “one of the biggest campaigns that NIRS won.” The effect of this provision was profound in that it helped to set a precedent for the continued regulation of radioactive waste. Despite this, history does not often remember the organizations and individuals behind such successes. In the case of the BRC amendment in EPACT, for instance, the NRC recorded that: In reaction to public concern about the implication of the 1990 Policy, the Commission initiated a consensus building process in 1991 to seek the advice of affected interests on a re evaluation of the policy In October 1992 the Congress enacted the Energy Policy Act of 1992 (H.R., 776), and the bill was subsequently sig ned into law by President [George H.W.] Bush . (“NRC Rules and Regulations” 1999, 2SC 16; emphasis added) Speaking of her own role and the role of D’Arrigo in the NIRS victory, Olson said: We were the ones who really put in the hours and killed brain ce lls, kept at it, made that happen. With thousands of other people – two people cannot do all of that – but we were the focal point of helping everyone else do it. Despite her success as part of the NIRS team, Olson resigned in 1994, and retreated to the mid West. After her departure, Olson briefly joined Bonnie Urfer and the group Nukewatch,12 a nonprofit organization in Wisconsin which was, at that time, protesting an extremely low frequency nuclear weapons antenna on the upper peninsula of Michigan. O lson said: 12 For more information see “ Nukewatch ” ( n.d.).

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158 NukeWatch folks would do nonviolent actions [to] try to disrupt it. And so, they would be arrested and go to court, and also go to jail.and you know, I had no intention of going to jail. Her time at NukeWatch was short lived and ended during the 1994 midterm elections when the Republican party took control of Congress under Democratic President Bill Clinton. Olson explained that, “ in our twoparty system, it is ‘ winner take all ’ and the party with the most members gets to chair every commit tee, and the Chairs get to set every agenda.” Olson said, “I was standing in my kitchen in Wisconsin listening to NPR and listening to these election results. And I had a vision. An honest to god bonified vision.” She recounted her vision saying “I literally saw tigers on leases. And one was John Dingell .” The other, Olson explained was, Bennett Johnston, the Democratic Senator from Louisianna. In more detail, Olson explained that when the Republicans gained control of Congress, the nuclear industry representatives would align with the shift in power. “That meant” she continued, “these guys [the Democrats ; Dingell and Johnston] were dangerous... to the Republican agenda; and while they wouldn’t want to help us, they would love to do anything that would be monkeywrenching to the new committee chairs .”13 That night, Olson phoned her former boss, Michael Mariotte, the Executive Director at NIRS and told him about her vision. Olson returned to NIRS in 1994, after being away for only four months, and would remain with the organization at the D.C. office until 1999 as the Senior Radioactive Waste Policy Specialist. When she returned, two experiences influenced her decision to s t ay. The first of those experiences occurred w hen she was standing in an office at NIRS and grabbed one of the many documents off the shelf, opening it to a random page. She compared it to consulting an oracle: 13 Unfortunately for Olson, however, Johnston decided to retire when the Republicans took control of Congress.

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159 The page I opened to answered why I was there. It had two pie charts, showing military and civilian generation of radioactive waste in the U.S. and ninetyfive percent of the radioactivity, which is what I care about as a health oriented person . . . was from commercial nuclear power. And the nonnuclear power generators in the commercial sid e were about the thickness of a pencil line and everything else was from making electricity. So, it’s as if you are setting an A bomb off twenty four seven when the reactor is operating. And so, in a year, a typical reactor makes as much heat and radioact ivity as 1,100 Hiroshima bombs. In a year. (See Figure 62. ) Olson said, “I put the report back on the shelf, and never asked again ‘why am I here?’ .” The radioactive nuclear waste from commercial nuclear power facilities is what Olson has spent her caree r fighting against.

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160 Figure 62 : “Total U.S. Nuclear Waste – Military and Civilian .” 14 14 This figure, provided by Olson, was originally published by Global Resource Action Center for the Environment (GRACE) a non profit organization that has since dissolved. In 2021, Olson said the following in relation to the figure: “This information is 25 years old, and nuclear reactors have operated in every one of those years, but there has been ZERO industrial scale production of nuclear weapons, so, if the charts were drawn today, the black area would be even BIGGRE and the white smaller (as they are relative to production). And while nuclear weapons have been made, they have been ‘hand crafted’ in Los Alamos, NM, while reactors are operating in more than 30 states.”

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161 After her return to NIRS in 1994, members of Congress began sponsoring bills to select a site for temporary above ground storage of highly radioactive waste at the one and only site under study for a permanent geological repository , before science confirmed that the site was suit able for either. These bills were an attempt to comply with the proposed 31 January 1998 deadline of the NWPA, which required that the Department of Energy (DOE) begin removing spent fuel rods from nuclear reactor sites for storage in the geological repository.15 The bills became a pressing matter in 1994 because of the “time needed to rewrite all of that [legislation] so that they could change the deadline, or ultimately be able to provide a basis for being able to take the waste.” Although there were many bills proposed in the House of Representatives and in the Senate, few of them had traction. One bill however, proposed by Representative Frederick (Fred) Upton from Michigan, “a virulent Republican stronghold” had a “long life in the process” and “had currency f rom 1994 to 2000 with very few changes .”. To obtain the number of votes necessary to keep the veto threat alive under a Republican controlled Congress, Olson knew that she would need someone to monkeywrench the system. My vision was work related. But it w as a vision. And I understood it as such. And therefore, I felt empowered to act on it with . . . more certainty and more conviction than if it had been my own personal idea. Olson did not plan the encounter with Dingell in the Rayburn hallway. Instead, a cting on her intuition, Olson took a chance. After their encounter, Dingell found a loophole through which he could effectively monkeywrench the bill while still appearing as if he were trying to help. Because of her audaciousness, Dingell considered her p roposition, and six weeks after their meeting in the Rayburn hallway, he brought up the Winstar concern, an issue that locked up the 15 For a comprehensive historical account of laws and policy on nuclear waste in the United States see Stewart and Stewart ( 2011).

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162 bill completely. Winstar, a Supreme Court Case decision that passed in 1996, found that the government breached its contrac tual obligations set out in the Financial Institutions Reform, Recovery, and Enforcement Act of 1989. The ruling resulted in significant payouts, including to the Winstar corporation.16 During 1994, however, the Winstar concern was still being negotiated, and according to Olson, “threw everybody into a very messy [situation] .” During the House Energy and Commerce Committee hearing on Upton’s proposed bill, which was held in the Spring of 1994, Dingell made a point of bringing up the Winstar concern. As the ranking minority member, Dingell had no power, despite having chaired the committee previously and for most of his career. But despite his anemic power, Dingell did have useful previous experience as the Chair of the Committee. “Winstar had a history that [Dingell] knew, and he was sitting there saying we shouldn’t go down this road because it would be a repeat of the Winstar mess.” Dingell found “any number of ways that he could bring it up” and “it was his signal to the room that he thought this was kind of complicated and messy .” In the Committee setting, which is “formedwith power relationships between primarily male people in a deal getting and giving environment ,” it was “enough to put the brakes on in the room ,” Olson recalled. “It was just absolute ly brilliant” she continued. “He said something about Winstar . . . and he winked at me .” I thought I might have imagined this the first time, but he winked at me at every hearing. about ten days later he’s walking down the hill in the evening and I’m w alking up , and he smiles, and says “good evening” to me, and winks. In our interview, Olson said, “I trusted John Dingell .” “We were secret allies” she continued, “though we never spoke again.” 16 For more information see “ United States V. Winstar Co rp ” ( 1996).

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163 Although it was proposed several more times between 1994 and 1999, Upton’s bill never passed in Congress. And despite her pivotal role in helping to prevent the proposed changes to the NWPA, Olson has remained mostly invisible in this process, though she was privately acknowledged by Dingell. If asked, Olson said, “there’s no way [Dingell] would have ever taken an interview in which he said he helped the anti nuclear group. Never .” And despite the possibility that Dingell might have had strategic professional reasons for distancing himself from any anti nuclear lobbyists, the point remains that his silence – his failure to openly acknowledge Olson and her role in his monkeywrenching plan – has rendered her role in the defeat of the bill invisible. The privacy and intimacy of the winking gestures is also suggestive of the phrase “this can be our little secret ,” by which any public connection between Dingell and Olson is also obscured. But, for Olson, “[the vision] had to do with the power relationship and whether I could entice someone to have [the] role that I wanted . ” In her mind, she did accomplish this goal, and called John Dingell a “tiger on [her] leash .” In 2021, Olson said, “to me, that was my spiritual life. The ability to bring that vision in and manifest itthat it happened for me and that [Dingell] confirme d that it happened for himthat was super big in my spiritual life.” The role that Olson played with Dingell, however, was just one small part of the work that she did. In 2021, she spoke to the extent of her efforts (along with those other individuals at NIRS) organizing and mobilizing against high level nuclear waste, and said that she wrote hundreds of action alerts, gave numerous talks, held press conferences, spoke at lobby meetings and congressional meetings, was on the phone with staffers all the time, and worked around the clock for years. “All of that,” she said, “is what made those victories.”

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164 The second reason that Olson chose to remain in Washington occurred shortly after her return. In the first meeting she attended, someone presented Presiden t Bill Clinton’s veto threat on the nuclear waste legislation. The “primary stated objection” by Clinton was “that nuclear waste should not be stored temporarily near Yucca Mountain before the site had been found suitable for permanent underground disposal ” (Holt 2002). Moreover, Clinton also “threatened a veto over provisions in the bills that would [give] NRC sole authority to set radiation protection standards for the repository” (Holt 2002). Olson said, “it was something to marvel at. . . [Clinton] wrote the strongest veto threat that these guys, who had spent their lives on [the Hill], had seen on the nuclear waste bill .” From that point forward, Olson’s job in Washington, “was to ensure that at any hour of the day or night, on any day of the year, ther e were thirty four senators ready to vote ‘No’ on changing the nuclear waste laws .” With Dingell’s help on the Winstar concern, “that’s all it took” Olson said, “because what I actually had was the president .” But Olson made it clear that Clinton was there of his own accord. “If Clinton hadn’t been as firm in his conviction that these changes to nuclear waste law were bad, and wrong, and immoral, and disastrous,” she said, “we wouldn’t have had a fight .” I didn’t get Bill Clinton. . .. We did not get Bill Clinton. Bill Clinton was there. We joined forces with Bill Clinton. I did nothing to get that veto threat. . .. to be historically accurate you have to acknowledge that he had his own part in this, and the rest of the game would have been off, or at least very different without his part.17 The ongoing commitment to the veto threat, however, was informed, at least in part, by the work of NIRS, and specifically by Olson in her role in that organization. Olson described how the work of NIRS was brought to the attention of Clinton. Mariotte “coined the phrase ‘Stop 17 Throughout his presidency, Clinton remained firm against the use of nuclear weapons. In 1995, Clinton issued a pledge to NPT Non Nuclear Weapons States decreeing that the “United States [would] not use nuclear weapons against non nuclear wea pons states” (Federation of American Scientists 1995).

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165 Mobile Chernobyl’ .” The phrase was used to describe the transportation of nuclear waste across the country which would be necessary if a repository, such as the proposed Yucca Mountain site, w ere approved. 18 These shipments, traveling through the hearts of cities, are continually something to either avoid altogether or reduce the number of times you do it. So, Michael got on board with transport being the focal point, as did the state of Nevada, and they produced maps that [showed] the likely routes of truck, rail, and barge that the waste would take to Nevada, and we called the entire thing Mobile Chernobyl. During one Congressional session, the senate version of Upton’s proposed bill was brought to the floor, where it was filibustered by both Senators from Nevada, Reid and Bryan on a brilliant strategy by one of Bryan’s aids, Joe Berry. “ Berry had designed interlocking filibusters so that, within twenty four hours, no action on anything but their procedurl motions was possible in the U.S. Senate .” Olson explained that, “a very rare event ensued when Senate Majority Leader Trent Lott instructed the Senate Sargent at Arms to bring all Senators to the chamber, and Lott chewed them all out, at length.” Soon thereafter, Lott and Speaker of the House Newt Gingrich went to the White House to discuss the legislative priorities with President Clinton and Vice President Al Gore. Olson said that she found out later from an insider in the room that “whe n the Senate Majority said, “nuclear waste,” Al Gore said, “oh no, not Mobile Chernobyl .” The work of NIRS had made it into the Oval Office. Olson also had a direct influence on Clinton’s knowledge about the nuclear waste storage bill. Laughing, she recounted: I used to tell the joke that there was one woman between me and Bill Clinton, and it wasn’t Hillary. It was a woman [Associate Director Linda Lance] over at theCouncil on Environmental Quality (CEQ) and she told me when I was leaving [that] the nuc lear waste veto was Clinton’s most personal [veto threat], and she said that when I would call her, she would pick up the phone and call him directly. Then he would call her, and she would pick up the phone and call me. And so, for six years, I was in near ly direct contact with a seated president. 18 Olson has been outspoken against the transportation of nuclear waste for long term storage purposes. See, for instance, Charman ( 1998); Andrew ( 2011); Sneed ( 2011); and Barrett ( 2017).

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166 Through her time in Washington, Olson was instrumental in obtaining and keeping the thirtyfour “ no” votes in Congress to back Clinton’s veto threat and to ensure that the bill would not pass. In 2021, Olson emphasized, however, that her efforts were part of the larger contribution made by the entire NIRS team. “ Throughout the ‘ Stop Mobile Chernobyl ’ period, the NIRS team produced Action Alerts (first by mail and fax, and later by email), which signaled the need for citizens to call, write, and email their members of Congress, especially those in the Senate. ” Olson clarified that she drafted the Alerts, and that Michael Mariotte edited them. Moreover, the NIRS team “ collected hundreds of thousands of signatures on petitions while working in collaboration with a coalition of as many as two hundred grassroots organizations and at least a dozen other D.C. national environmental organizations .” Olson said, “I did most of the campaign planning, but Mic hael wrote a lot of the copy. I went out on the roadwith mock nuclear waste casks and did tour after tour .”19 She continued, “this was a huge operation, and yes, I was the Campaign Director with Michael, but it was never just me .” It was only after she left the NIRS office in Washington D.C. in early 1999, that the NWPA gained traction in Congress. On 24 June 1999, the Republican Senator from A laska, Frank Murkowski, sponsored the Nuclear Waste Policy Amendments Act of 2000 (S. 1287). The bill passed in the Senate on 10 February 2000 and in the House on 22 March 2000. Clinton vetoed the bill on 25 April 2000, and the veto was sustained when Congress failed to override it with the needed twothirds majority vote on 2 May 2000 (Murkowski 1999). Reflecting on her role in that success, Olson said: 19 In 1999, aft er Olson moved and opened the Southeast Office of NIRS, Kevin Kamps was hired to take over this position.

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167 You don’t get to sit down with a powerful man and have that conversation. But as a woman in the inimitable seas of the early 1990s, well enough dressed, behaving properly, I could be that little finger, just going (c ome hither motion). And none of my male colleagues could ever do what I did. Ever. Speaking directly about her interaction with Dingell, she continued: There’s no way [a man] could have done with John Dingell what I did. . .. There is no way that a young male could start talking to John Dingell without introducing himself. Dingell would stop. Turn. Examine him. Say “get the fuck out of my face” or say, “w ho the hell do you think you are .” There’s no way!... I’m not saying that a man couldn’t have enticed Dingell to monkeywrench on nuclear waste. But he couldn’t have done it the way that I did it. Of her work with Clinton, she said: I never met him. But that level of work, he knew damn well who he was working with, in terms of which organization. I don’t know if my name came into it. [But] it was a real honor and a real privilege, in the sense of feeling that we had traction, feeling that we had the abili ty to actually make a difference in preventing something that would be so devastating.20 Congressional records, newspapers, and historical accounts have recorded Clinton’s role, as well as the role of the Democrats (especially Senators Reid and Bryan), in the successful defeat of the bill21 (Black 2000; Hebert 2000; Sonner 2000; Shollenberger 2000; Mac f arlane and Ewing 2006, 38; Holt 2010, 32; R. Macy 2000; Wald 2000; Alvarez 2000; Pine 2000; Clinton 2000a , 594). Despite her lack of recognition in these accounts, Olson played a role in ensuring that the bill for a longterm nuclear waste repository did not pass in Congress. As both a woman and a lobbyist, 20 I wrote to the William J. Clinton foundation in 2020 to request an interview and in an attempt to verify this information but received no response. 21 On 25 April 2000, President Clinton gave his veto statement before Congress and s aid ( in part ) : “I am returning herein without my approval S. 1287 the “Nuclear Waste Policy Amendments Act of 2000”. Unfortunately, the bill passed by the Congress will do nothing to advance the scientific program at Yucca Mountain or promote public confidence in the decision of whether or not to recommend the site for a repository in 2001. Instead, this bill could be a step backward in both respects. The bill would limit th e Environmental Protection Agency's (EPA) authority to issue radiation standards that protect human health and the environment and would prohibit the issuance of EPA's final standards until June 2001.It is critical that we develop the capability to permanently dispose of spent nuclear fuel and highlevel radioactive waste, and I believe we are on a path to do that. Unfortunately, the bill passed by the Congress does not advance these basic goals” (Clinton 2000b).

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168 she was able to influence high ranking political officials through subtle suggestions which had direct implications on Nuclear Waste Policy decisions under the Clinton administration. Throughout this process, however, Olson has remained predominately (in)visible. In 1998, the DOE failed to meet the proposed deadline of January 31 for a decision of when was te acceptance would begin at the Yucca Mountain site. Olson clarified that there “was a queue to the order in which the DOE was supposed to take the waste off reactor sites, so when they failed to meet the deadline , the utilities companies sued. The federal government has been paying ongoing costs of storage at the reactor sites [ever since].” In December the DOE issued its Viability Assessment (Viability Assessment 1998). The results found that Yucca Mountain should remain a potential site for a geological repository but would extend the deadline for a decision until 2001 (Viability Assessment 1998, 2). A number of scientists pushed back against the DOE’s conclusions. Two studies were cited, both of which claimed that Yucca Mountain was at risk from water pe netrating the repository (Warrick 1998). Nuclear waste storage casks, exposed to water, would deteriorate over time, and allow radioactive material to escape, eventually leading to soil and groundwater contamination. One of the studies suggested that rainw ater would eventually permeate the mountain and penetrate the storage vaults (Warrick 1998). Another study, based on the discovery of calcite crystals in the interior of the site, argued that the site had been flooded with hot water from underground “at le ast once in the geologically recent past” and suggested that before the site could be deemed “safe” additional testing would be needed to determine “when and why” that flooding occurred (Warrick 1998). On the issue, Olson said, “Yucca Mountain is a sieveI f they’re going to bury waste, they picked a hell of a bad site” (Warrick 1998). Olson also said that “we now know water can move from the waste level to wells in less than 1,000 years. This violates the Energy Department’s own guidelines”

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169 (Warrick 1998). In 2002, Yucca Mountain was formally recommended as the U.S. nuclear repository. Despite a veto enacted by Nevada Governor Kenny Guinn22, both houses of Congress approved the resolution, which George W. Bush signed into law. Through the early 2000s the De partment of Energy worked to solve technical issues identified by the NRC, and to create a nuclear waste transportation plan. In 2005 the DOE proposed the use of dedicated rail shipments (meaning trains that carry only nuclear waste containers) to ship rad ioactive waste from other parts of the country to Yucca Mountain. After a number of legal battles during the 2000s the DOE tried to terminate its license to establish a repository at Yucca Mountain in 2010, supported by President Barack Obama, but “courts ruled that there was no provision in the law to withdraw a tendered repository license application, and therefore it was a decision for Congress to make, hinging on whether the project was funded in annual appropriations .” Despite several attempts, bills in Congress to re allocate funding to the study of the Yucca Mountain site, and to re open it for consideration as a repository, have been unsuccessful. As of 2020, the Yucca Mountain site is no longer being funded, and President Donald “Trump’s fiscal year 2021 budget did not include funds for Yucca Mountain” (Macfarlane 2020). “That’s Not Very Ladylike!” – On Gender and Presentation In addition to her work as a lobbyist, Olson has made a number of important contributions to the anti nuclear movement in the United States and abroad. Despite her prominent role in some of these contributions, however, Olson has remained invisible. One such incident occurred soon after she began working at NIRS in the early 1990s . Caldicott, who had at that time retreated to Au stralia, began sending faxes to the NIRS office “asking questions about 22 “ The Nuclear Waste Policy Act gives the Governor of Nevada the power to veto the President’s nuclear waste repository site recommendation. G overnor Guinn exercised that power on the 8th of April [2002], without objection .” His notice, as well as his list of reasons for disapproval are included in the Congressional record. See Yucca Mountain Repository Development ( 2002 , 45 51).

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170 U.S. policy and the status of certain nuclear programs .” “The faxes were just lying on the floor. They were being stepped on. They were from the woman who wrote the book that saved my life!,” Olson said. She immediately went to her boss and gained permission to respond to them. After several months of communicating, Caldicott sent Olson the manuscript of a book and asked if she would help her with it. Sitting at the kitchen table in her un airconditioned Washington, D.C. apartment, Olson spent hours working on Caldicott’s manuscript, an updated version of Nuclear Madness. I helped her preserve the core that had been so important to me. It was the kind of engagement that she wouldn’t have gotten from anybody who was just an editor. So, I have first acknowledgement in the front pages of the 1994 edition of Nuclear Madness. However, the full extent of Olson’s contribution remains invisible. Olson worked with between two and three hundred pages of the text, making revisions, and adding back in the passages that had been “ so important ” to her when she was a radiation victim. But when the manuscript came back in, Olson found the briefs she had fa xed back to Australia, verbaitum in the manuscript. “Helen had not bothered to paraphrase, she had just taken my writing and stuck it right into her manuscript.” After the initial shoc k and outrage subsided: I stopped, and I thought to myself, I’ll never have a better vehicle than Helen Caldicott. World famous. Already published. I need to help her work be as good as it could be. So, I decided that I should make her update of Nuclear Madness the very best book that it could possibly be. Olson never confronted Caldicott or objected to the omission. Despite her failure to address the subject directly, Olson seemed aware of the implications of Caldicott’s actions, as well as her own. In a sense, Caldicott’s lack of appropriate attribution is an act of erasure: by failing to cite Olson’s original contributions to the text, Caldicott minimized and appropriated her contributions to the revised manuscript. But Olson’s generosity also enabled the silencing: by yieldi ng to the

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171 power dynamics at play between herself and Caldicott, an already well established professional, author, and prominent anti nuclear activist, Olson became a participant in her own silencing. It seemed, however, that Olson has had time since to ref lect on her decision in this matter and is aware of its impact. Olson did, for instance, allude to other layers of invisibility at work in her personal interactions with Caldicott. When she delivered her edited version of the manuscript to Caldicott in per son during a conference, Olson described the scene, saying that Caldicott was “absolutely surrounded by people .” She “inspires that kind of Beatles level” of attention; “she’s a star .” [Caldicott] always had a face that helped her go where she wanted to go, and I was not part of that face. She made that clear. She did not invite me into those type of situations. I am short, I’m fat, I’m inappropriate lots of the time. I don’t fit the cookie cutter She had a real savvy for wearing the pearls but in order to get into that room you have to look and smell right. Olson’s story, in juxtaposition with Caldicott’s experience as recounted in the previous Chapter , helps to reveal the dynamic (in)visibilities created by patriarchal mythologies, such as the beauty myth, that women face in their everyday lives. Olson clarified that Caldicott was a professional, a healer, and a leader, and that she presented as such, without “putting on” in any way. Although she is also authentic and genuine in social settings, Olson conveyed that she is often deemed inappropriate because: I am often either too likely to express my own opinion or analysis and engage in the discussion far more than most women do, or I am prone to emotional engagement where tact and reserve are expected . So, when I say inappropriate, it is not that I am obscene or disruptive – I am a nerd without adequate social skills, willingness to conform, and often lack the reserve expected of a younger (then) female. Other variations of this experience are common. In another instance, Olson described how her appearance afforded her an opportunity of access that she would not have otherwise gained. While working as a lobbyist Olson said:

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172 I know people who choose to not dress properly. They wear that bright pink color and they don’t behave properly. They go in with the intention of nonviolently disrupting. My job all those years on capitol hill was absolutely not that, I absolutely had to convey and present in the public moment . Her years on Capitol Hill were “primar ily performance of various kinds .” “My appearance and demeanor and engagement in congressional offices was fully governed by my goals” Olson said. She went to Nordstrom Rack and spent $150 on a suit (still a major investment for her at the time) which was originally sold for $600. When the republicans swept inthey actually did not know, until they knew me, who I was working for. Because I looked like I could be representing the nuclear industry. I could be representing another congressional office. I could be representing a federal agency. And so, I wasn’t allowing my behavior or my appearance to condition the outcome of the work that I was there to do. “All of it pertains to what is acceptable for a female in the halls of power,” Olson said. These experi ences are pervasive in the lives of women and reveal dynamic layers of (in)visibility at work in the power relationships that inform culture. “Get a GRIP!” – On Gender Radiation Impact Project In 1999, Olson married and moved to the Augusta, Georgia area , taking along her job as Senior Radioactive Waste Policy Specialist of NIRS. The following year she moved again, this time to Asheville, North Carolina in 2000, where she founded and directed the Southeast regional office of NIRS until 30 June 2019.23 Over those two decades, Olson made several other contributions to the anti nuclear movement, including contributions that had a significant impact on global nuclear conversations at the United Nations (UN) . In particular, Olson had an instrumental role in facilitating gender specific research about the impact of ionizing radiation from nuclear weapons and nuclear waste, finding that there are disproportionate effects of 23 For more info rmation, see “ NIRS Southeast ” ( n.d. ).

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173 radiation on women and girls , when compared to men and boys. Her paper was picked up by diplomats seeking to redefine nuclear weapons as a global humanitarian issue. Despite those contributions, however, her role in those successes has remained predominantly invisible. While presenting on a panel at a conference in 2010, Olson was confronted with a question she had not previously heard about the effects of nuclear radiation. After the talk a woman raised her hand and she said “ is radiation more harmful to me as a woman as compared to a man?” And I didn’t miss a bea t, but I gave her an answer on pregnancy and fertility; she came back and said, “ But my question wasn’t about that, it was about my own body. Am I more likely to get something like cancer from radiation than a male? ” . Despite having sat on dozens of panel s and having been in conversation with some of the best radiation researchers of the 20th century, Olson was unable to answer the question. At that time, Olson was unaware of any research on the topic of whether gender, or biological sex was a factor in ra diation harm. “I forgot the question it was so upsetting.” But when the Fukushima Daiichi24 nuclear power plant disaster occurred on 11 March 2011, Olson said “the question came back to me full force .” Olson called her mentor, Dr. Rosalie B e rtell25 and ask ed if she w as aware of any research on the topic. She was not but encouraged Olson to “look at the data .” B e rtell pointed Olson to a report published by the National Academy of Science on the biological effects of ionizing radiation on survivors from the a tomic bombs dropped on Hiroshima and Nagasaki ( see 24 9.1 magnitude earthquake ctor, causing a failure of the backup generators powering the plant. As a result of the power loss, the pumps used to cool the reactor cores stopped running, and three of the nuclear reactor cores melted down. The Fukushima Daiichi nuclear disaster was classified, on the International Nuclear and Radiological Event Scale (INES), as a Level 7 (Major Accident) (see “International Nuclear and Radiological Event Scale (INES)” n.d.). 25 Dr. Rosalie Bertell (1929 2012) was an American scientist and a sister of t he Grey Nuns of the Sacred Heart. During her career, she worked as a consultant for the U.S. Nuclear Regulatory Commission and wrote two books that dealt with nuclear technologies, No Immediate Danger?: Prognosis for a Radioactive Earth (1990 [1985]) and Planet Earth: The Latest Weapon of War (2000).

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174 Upton et al . 1990, National Academy of Science 2006).26 With B e rtell’s encouragement, Olson undertook the task of examining the raw data from the National Academy of Science report. When she did, Olson found that: at the same exposure to [young adults] the female gets fifty percent more cancer across the next sixty years. B ut when you look at the children,the females exposed as little girls get twice as much cancer, all adjusted to a per capita basis. In 2011, Olson published her article, “Atomic Radiation is More Harmful to Women.”27 Therein she argued that “ data in the report on the Biological Effects of Ionizing Radiation” were underreported. Moreover, Olson showed that: It is more often acknowledged that children are at higher risk of disease and death from radiation, but it is rarely pointed out that the regulation of radiation and nuclear activity (worldwide) ignores the disproportionately greater harm to both women and children: “ allowable ” doses to the public do not incorporate this information. Important as well is that Olson called attention to the federal government’s use of the adult male as the guideline for setting safety standards or evaluating the impact of an accident .” The model, called “Reference Man” is a formula, created in 1974, for evaluating the adverse health effects of radiation on general populations. 28 The formula, however, was based on the average adult male “height, age, weight, . . . lifestyle, average temperature, it specifies he is white.”29 26 See also “ Committee to AssessNational Research Council” ( 2006). 27 See also Olson ( 2019) for the more recently updated and published version. 28 For full report see Snyder et al. ( 1974). For a history of the development of “Reference Man” and updated use of Reference individuals see Bolch ( 2019). 29 The “Reference Man” model has been widely critiqued, not only in its use for setting standards for safe levels of radiation exposure (see, for instance, Later et al. 2010; Makhijani 2009[2008]) but also for broader uses including, for instance, as the sta ndard for crash test dummies see Criado Perez ( 2019). This model has also been updated for various populations including “Reference Individuals” (I nternatioal Commission on Radiological Protection 2002), and Asian populations (Tanaka et al. 1998; Tanaka and Kawamura 2000).

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175 At the time that she wrote the article, Olson said, there was another study that had addressed the same question written by a group of men, entitled “Science for the Vulnerable” ( Makhijani, Smith, and Thor ne 2006). These researchers conducted a detailed risk assessment of environmental hazards on vulnerable populations. They proposed an updated scientific framework for evaluating environmental risks that would take seriously differences based on age, gender , race, and multiple or compounded exposures. Olson was unaware of the existence of the study when she undertook her own analysis of the National Academy of Sciences data. She openly acknowledged that Makhijani et al. did the research first and described h erself as an “independent second analyst .” “We want confirmation in science” she said, as she emphasized the importance of her own work. The important distinction between the two studies is that Makhijani et al. showed the disparities between vulnerable po pulations in terms of risk assessment, while Olson looked at specific data from atomic bomb survivors and showed the difference in harm done by radiation over time. For Olson, the finding that radiation causes disproportionate impacts to women and girls “s topped her show” and redirected the course of her future passion and research. In 1968 the UN created the landmark Treaty on the Non Proliferation of Nuclear Weapons (NPT), which was housed under the Security Council of the UN (“Treaty on the NonProlifiration of Nuclear Weapons” n.d.). The NPT sought to prevent the proliferation of nuclear weapons and technology with the eventual goal of complete nuclear disarmament but lack ed any concrete mechanisms to achieve it . (“Treaty of Nuclear Weapons” n.d.). Under the Security Council, the NPT was considered a Treaty of War, and was the only “binding commitment in a

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176 multilateral treaty to the goal of disarmament by the nuclearweapon States” (“Treatyof Nuclear Weapons” n.d.). 30 Beginning in 2010 at th e Non Proliferation Treaty (NPT) Review Conference in New York, the United Nations began a discussion of the humanitarian consequences of nuclear weapons use. 31 According to Reaching Critical Will (RCW)32, a disarmament program of Women’s International Lea gue for Peace and Freedom (WILPF)33 by 2013, 125 governments had signed a joint statement in support of prohibition and elimination of nuclear weapons (“Reaching Critical Will: Who We Are” n.d.).34 The following year, Olson was invited by the Austrian Amba ssador to the U N on Nuclear Disarmament, Alexander Kmentt, to speak at the “Humanitarian Consequences of Nuclear Weapons” conference held in Vienna, Austria in December 2014 (See “Program” 2014). 35 Kmentt asked Olson to be the first speaker to present afte r the opening ceremony of the conference, a role which enabled her to set the tone for the conference. In front of 125 nation state Ambassadors to the UN, Olson opened the panels with an apology: “My government chose 30 The nuclear weapons states are the U.S., Russia, China, France, U.K, Pakistan, India, Isreal, and North Korea. 31 See “Humanitarian Impact of Nuclear Weapons ” (2020). 32 See “Reaching Critical Will: Who We Are” (n.d.). 33 See “Women’s International League for Peace and Freedom” (n.d.). WILPF is the oldest peace organization for women in the world. 34 For more details see Joint Statement on the Humanitarian Dimension of Nuclear Disarmament (2012); “First Committee Monitor” (2012); Joint Statement on the Humanitarian Impact of Nuclear Weapons (2013); Joint Statement on the Humanitarian Consequences of Nuclear Weapons (2013); “Background:Total Elimination” (n.d.), and “Humanitarian Impact of Nuclear Weapons ” ( 2020). 35 I wrote to Kmentt in 2020 in an attempt to verify Olson’s testimony but received no response.

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177 to use the first nuclear weapons on cit ies full of people. speaking only as one woman, I need to say I am very sorry. I deeply regret this history” (Olson 2017 ).36 During her presentation37 Olson discussed the medical consequences of ionizing radiation and the disproportionate effects of radiation on women and girls. Olson said, “Radiation is not safe for males, but new findings show that ionizing radiation is more harmful for females. There is a gender factor” (Olson 2017). She went on to show how policy makers, using Reference Man as the standard, have continued to ignore data integral to understanding the human health risks of ionizing radiation. Through the use of a graph showing Referenc e Man, she argued that “decision makers have not seen information about males of other ages, or any information about females until very recently. We have been invisible” ( Olson 2017) . Although she was not the first or only critic of the use of Reference Man, Olson’s research has contributed to the ongoing scientific discussion about nuclear risk assessment. Olson’s presentation was well received at the conference, and she said that she knew Kmentt “was pleased .” But Arjun Makhijani, one of the authors of the 2006 article “Science for the Vulnerable” was also present at the conference. He [Makhijani] was sitting next to me, and he had not apparently looked at the agenda so he had no idea that I was in the first panel and he was in the second so when he sa w me go [to speak] you should have seen the color drain out of his face. Even though Olson acknowledged him as the initial researcher in her presentation, Makhijani has been unwilling to speak to her since the conference . “There is a part of me that feels really bad,” 36 It is important to clarify here that Olson emphasized that the U.S. was the first government to choose to use nuclear weapons to target human populations, and with the direct intention of doing harm to human life. What remains unspoken here is the impact on a variety of organisms and downwind human populations affected by the nuclear weapons tests prior to the Japan bombings. 37 For video footage of Olson’s prese ntation see “ G ender and Radiation Impact Project” ( n.d . ) or Olson ( 2017).

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178 Olson said, emotion heavy in her voice. But “I am a U.S. citizen I could apologize” while “[Makhijani] is notso he [could not] make that same statement in the same way .” “I honestly think that Kmentt was wag ering that I would come through” with the apology, Olson said. I love Arjun. I truly feel that he has contributed a tremendous amount to this world, and I support his right to that recognition. But at the same time, it is like “ no, Arjun! You do not ow n the disproportionate effect of radiation on every woman and girl on the planet !” You don’t get to own that! So, another part of me is like this is why I don’t back down. The effect of that conference, and presumably in part due to Olson’s presentation, was profound. That conference is what led to the drafting of the new Convention on the Prohibition of Nuclear Weapons three years later at the UN under the General Assembly and Humanitarian Law, instead of the Security Council and Military Law [which was a] BIG DEAL!. In the spring of 2015, the UN reviewed the NPT. Olson was invited by Austria and Ireland to speak on a panel of Gender and Nuclear Weapons, in which the goals of the new Treaty on the P rohibition of N ucler W eapons (TPNW) was foreshadowed. T he new TPNW would be drafted under Humanitarian Law, mirroring the landmark Treaty on Mines, which is rooted in universal human rights and is specifically concerned with the impact that indiscriminate weapons, like landmines and nuclear weapons could have on noncombatants, including, and especially, women and children. Moreover, as Humanitarian Law, the TPNW would be under the authority of the General Assembly, which is ruled by majority vote, an important distinction from the earlier NPT which is a Treaty of War and housed under the Security Council where each of the nuclear weapons states holds veto power. The TPNW does not revoke the NPT: rather, the two treaties work in conjunction with the aims of total disarmament (NPT), prohibition, and eventual elim ination (TPNW) of nuclear weapons. By 2015, however , the conversation on the abolition of nuclear weapons at the UN “had become frozen, static .” In 2016, Olson had coffee with Kmentt who told her that leading up to

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179 the 2015 NPT review, the conversation about nuclear weapons had dissipated: “There wasn’t anything new to say. The major powers were not going to shift or change —they were going to promise to disarm, but never do it. And so, nobody wanted to talk aboutge tting rid of them .” But Kmentt also communicated that the data from Olson’s paper provided new information which helped facilitate a new conversation about nuclear weapons. “They needed evidence that nuclear weapons disproportionately impact women and chil dren. They got that from me .” As a result, 125 nations voted to go into treaty negotiation for the new TPNW . When they sat down for coffee, Olson said, “[Kmentt] was thanking me .” Reflecting on how that accomplishment made her feel, Olson said “my paper wa s just the grease that managed to get the doors to open.” She went on to say: Leadership and impact are very different than we ascribe them to be. I did all that work . [but] I would never stand up and tell the world on a stage that my work is why we have the new Ban Treaty. Olson also spoke to the gendered dynamics at play in the situation and said: I don’t really tell people this much, because I don’t really know how to – it’s such a female thing. My work was a contribution that is out of sight. It was carried by this dashing man who looks like Prince C harming into these conversations. But he acknowledged me to my face over coffee. And so, I can, from time to time, acknowledge for myself that I was there, I was part of it....38 On 22 January 2021, the T PNW went into effect, ninety days after the required 50th nation ratified the treaty. It is the first legally binding international agreement to comprehensively prohibit nuclear weapons and ma de it illegal in the eyes of the international court of justice at the United Nations for any country to use nuclear weapons (Lederer 2021). Olson’s role, as she said, 38 The suggestion that there might be a gendered dimension to assertiveness and willingness to claim one’s accomplishments, as Olson stated here, is an intriguing one, and might be w orth further scholarly investigation.

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180 was “out of sight ,” invisible. But despite that, her contribution has had a lasting impact on the fight to ban nuclear weapons. In 2017, Olson founded Gender Radiation Impact Project (GRIP)39, a 501(c)(3) nonprofit organization based in Asheville, North Carolina, whose mission is to help prevent unintended exposure to radiation – especially to women and young girls, who are more at risk (“ Gender and Ra diation Impact Project” n.d.). The organization has been focused on public health and public policy and is committed to building “strategic alliances with public health agencies, women’s groups, and medical professionalswith the goal, at the very least, of a federal warning that gender and age are significant factors in risk of cancer from ionizing radiation exposure” (“ Gender and Radiation Impact Project ” n.d.). Olson’s work to found GRIP was deeply personal to her, and, as the website stated, it is “her life’s mission to bring light to the disproportionate impact of radiation on girls and women” (“ Gender and Radiation Impact Project” n.d.). Ultimately, she hopes to find some institutions that will adopt the mission of GRIP. In 2019, two new members were a dded to the GRIP board of directors: Brita Larsen Clark and David Lochbaum, the former Director of the Nuclear Safety Project for Union of Concerned Scientists (See “Union of Concerned Scientists” n.d.). As of 2020, and due in part to the economic crisis c aused by the COVID 19 pandemic, Olson has put much of the fundraising for GRIP on hold, although she continues to write grants for the organization and do public outreach and give interviews. On International Women’s Day, 18 March 2020, Olson was interview ed on KPFA radio (San Francisco) by Libbe HaLevy of Nuclear Hotseat (HaLevy 2020). In the interview, Olson said: Decision makersdon’t understand that little boys and little girls are part of our life cycle, and you can’t do something to a little girl tha t doesn’t show up in the 39 See “Gender and Radiation Impact Project” ( n.d. ).

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181 population if she survives long enough to become an adult. So, they are completely ignoring the disproportionate impact of radiation on female bodies. And the real key is there is greater impact no matter what the age of the female is in relation to the same age male. In every age group the female is harmed more than the male . (HaLevy 2020) The purpose of GRIP, she went on to say, is to help facilitate research that will help answer the question of why women and girls are dispropor tionately affected by radiation. In addition to her important work on the effects of nuclear radiation and gender disparity, Olson has been deeply committed throughout her life and career to environmental justice. After Congress officially created the Of fice of Nuclear Waste Negotiator in 1987 to create a “Monitored Retrievable Storage” (MRS) site for the interim storage of high level nuclear waste” (Kamps 2005), Olson became involved in the efforts to stop those sites from disproportionately affecting Na tive American communities. The proposed storage sites included Native American Tribal Lands, and in 1992, twenty tribes applied for MRS grants from the federal government, and seventeen were approved (Kamps 2005). That year, Olson was invited by Lance Hughes, the Executive Director for Native Americans for a Clean Environment40 to work on the issue of highlevel nuclear waste disposal on Native American reservation lands. Along with Grace Thorpe, Olson started the No Nuclear Waste on Indian Lands Project. O lson said, “Grace got tribes to return the money to the [government] saying ‘no thank you’ .” By September of 1992, all but five tribes had returned the money to the federal government (Kamps 2005).41 One of the holdouts was the Mescalero Apache tribe in New Mexico. Olson said that the tribal chairman “was trying to yank the chain of [the government] but it turned out that he was saying yes [to the waste] .” Olson began to work with Rufina Laws, a tribal member who opposed the waste 40 For an interview with Lance Hughes about why Native Americans were target for nuclear waste disposal, see James and Hughes ( 1991). 41 See also LaDuke ( 1999: 10310 6).

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182 dump on her tribal land. In 1994, Laws founded Humans Against Nuclear Waste Dumping (HANDS), and eventually ran for tribal chairman, but did not win because the incumbent, Chino, cheated and remained unseated . In 1995, the M escalero Apache held a tribal vote on the proposed MRS site. Kamps said “the Mescalero Apaches vote[d] 490 to 362 to deny it. Mescalero Waste Storage project manager Silas Cochise [said] the project was defeated by elderly tribal members, apparently unwilling to risk their grandchildren’s future” (Kamps 2005). Olson said that her involvement in the highlevel nuclear waste debate was “a defining moment for the organization [NIRS], as well as for me .” She said proudly that “it was several years of duking it out in Mescalero” but “they didn’t end up with the wasteand I was involved in all of that .” In 1994, Congress officially defunded and eliminated the Office of the Nuclear Waste Negotiator (Kamps 2001). “Let Me Help You with That” – Understanding (In)Visi bilities In our first interview, I asked Olson to start by telling me about herself. After speaking for several moments, she paused and noted that she had not described herself at all, but only her work. “And that describes me” she said. “Definitely since my twenties, work has been that major reason to get out of bed in the morning.” Through her work, Olson has made significant contributions to the anti nuclear movement in the United States, and globally. In light of Olson’s (in)visibility, I pose the ques tion, what accounts for her persistence, her passion, and her perseverance? “Endurance isn’t enough ,” she said. “You have to have this deeper sense that it isn’t about the little bits. It’s about that sense that we have a responsibility to all of life .” I nformed by several of the experiences in her life, Olson has adopted a perspective of what she called, “planet level identification .” Informed in part by her father’s commitment to zero population growth, and her mother’s teachings about the “world as a si ngle entity ,” Olson explained that her life

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183 experiences “compounded around this commitment to the bigger planet .” At an early age, she realized that her parents could only have four grandchildren in order to preserve her father’s commitment to zero populat ion growth, a commitment that Olson agreed with. But after her radiation incident, the decision about having children was made for her. “While it was a loss to check off that question,” Olson said, it was also a question of “planet level identification, ra ther than my body, my baby.” This perspective extended into her own work and her understanding of a felt responsibility to all of life. Then she mentioned something once heard from the Australian Buddhist and Deep Ecology activist John Seed: “One of the things that I carry with me was hearing John Seed42 say that high level nuclear waste is the reason that this [human] species needs to figure out how to survive, so we can continue to protect all of creation from this terrible monster we have made .” From h er mother, Olson also learned that “ everything, at all times, is moving toward health .” “Later ,” she said , “when I ran into Zen Buddhism, same message .” Olson began practicing Zen Buddhism in 1982 and moved into the Providence Zen Center in 1983. She was living there when Zen Master Seung Sahn founded the Kwan Um School of Zen, an American extension of the Choyge Order of Korean Buddhism and began practicing under that tradition. 43 Before going to Circle Pines, Olson lived and worked at the New Haven Zen Center, where she became the director. After moving to Circle Pines, she joined the Chicago Zen Center. Olson has continued her practice in the Zen tradition of Master Seung Sahn since that time. She said: I was in training to become a dharma teacher. I worked directly with him [Master Seung Sahn]. I also had a whole cohort of Dharma brothers and sisters who became senior students authorized to teach and now many of them are Zen 42 Seed is an internationally prominent environmental activist who founded the Rainforest Information Centre and toured with Earth First! (EF!) in the U . S . during the 1980s and developed the Council of All Beings with Joanna Macy; see Taylor ( 2005b, 20 10) and Macy (2005). 43 Since its founding, the tradition has spread worldwide. S ee “ The Kwan Um School .” ( n.d. ).

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184 masters. But I just didn’t feel that being clergy in the Buddhist tradition was my path and it hasn’t been, and I don’t think it will be any time soon. When she moved to the south to get married in 1999, Olson laid her precepts aside, but she still identifies as a student of the late Zen Master Seung Sahn. When reflecting on her work and her accomplishments, Olson connected her work back to her spiritual beliefs. “What are the little lines over my desk? Show up. Tell the truth. Pay attention. Do your best. Don’t be attached to outcome. That’s what I was doing every step of the way.” Speaking specifically about her role in bringing the disproportionate effects of radiation to the attention of the UN , Olson said that “achieving that moment of discourse, of dialogue, of discussion . . . and bringing to it medicine. . . my work has been s ome medicine. And that makes me feel good.” Further elaborating on her beliefs, Olson said, “in any religion, you are going to find people for whom their faith is part of their connection to the natural world .” Now living in Asheville, Olson continues to practice Buddhism as a lay person, but although there are Buddhist centers where she lives, they are not her “spiritual home.” Linking her spiritual beliefs to her own environmental practices, Olson said: My spiritual home is so far away that the carbon footprint associated with it makes me not inclined to make that trip. If I’m in the area I stop by, but my spiritual commitments are the same ones I’ve had all my life . After moving to Asheville, Olson joined Jubilee! Community Church, a nondenominational community that celebrates faith and creation spirituality44 through engagement with performing arts and fellowship.45 When we spoke, she was about to join another church “right up the street” 44 According to the Jubilee! Website, Creation Spirituality “ honors all of creation as holy gift. Creation Spirituality seeks to integrate the wisdom of Eastern and Western spirituality and global indigenous cultures, with the emerging post modern scientific understanding of the universe, and the awakening artistic passion for creativity” (“Jubilee! Community: A Call to Life ” n.d. ). 45 See “ Jubilee! Community: A Call to Life” ( n.d. ).

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185 from where she now lives . She said, “I’m not very disciplined a bout all of this” but expressed her excitement that “a woman has recently become the pastor” and that “they are Christians who don’t mind nonChristians .” She further articulated how her spirituality and environmental perspectives are connected: I can walk ! I don’t have to drive to church. That seems much more in keeping with all of my picture than thinking I have to get on an airplane and go to Rhode Island, to Providence Zen Center, to be at my spiritual home. That just does not make sense to me. Invoki ng a phrase used by musician Carlos Santana, Olson said, “it’s fabulous that people find connection. But you can’t have that connection unless you have some Bare Naked Awareness, which is up to the individual to be able to do.” She explained: This is a fun ctional statement. People who are capable of Bare Naked Awareness as Carlos Santana has said, or “ Be here now ,” as Ram Das (Richard Alpert) or our friend down at the farm, Stephen Gaskin, would say, you know any other statement of clear, open consciousness. [It] does not have to be Buddhist at all. But if you have that, then you are capable of some connection beyond your own little self and your own little life, which is what authentic connection46 with the planet and connection with other species requires . Olson described her beliefs as “a weird brand of mystical” for which, she said, “I don’t need a brand.” Olson further elaborated on the concept of Bare Naked Awareness and the connection between her spirituality and her work. She said: There are mystics in any tradition. And we are the ones who, just without question, experience embodiment of our faith. And experience in the present moment that Bare Naked Awareness. Something greater than ourselves. And we do our utmost to be of service to the healing and the inspiration. You know, it’s about wellness, it’s about nonviolence, it’s about peace. It’s about all that sense of commitment to life, but not my life or your life, but LIFE! The living system that is our planet and then oh, look up! Oh this doesn’t end here. I mean it’s a whole picture , it’s not any one piece. It’s a whole system is what I heard in that vision in Wisconsin. [It] was how to impact that – how to have a role that would be meaningful in that outcome. 46 Olson clarified and said: “ I would contrast this to science and observation and data collection they are not mutually exclusive, but not the same thing .”

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186 Olson’s perspect ive, informed by the childhood teachings of her parents, her own experiences, and her training as a biologist, is grounded in a holistic metaphysics that considers all life sacred. Through my own understanding of her beliefs, I have come to view them through the lens of what Taylor has called Gaian Spirituality (Taylor 2010 , 16). This form of Gaian Earth Religion, Taylor said, is “avowedly supernaturalistic, perceiving the superorganism – whether the biosphere or the entire universe – to have consciousness understood as an expression[of] whatever name one uses to symbolize a divine cosmos” (Taylor 2010, 16). Olson’s beliefs and worldview are also informed by a scientific understanding of biological evolutionary perspectives, of which she acknowledges humans are a part, and a conscious awareness of deep time. She explained her commitment to these perspectives through an example: I was sitting with my father, the Evolutionary Biologist, unafraid to teach Darwin in the Bible Belt of Indiana [we would] sit and share a beer (or soft drink) with the random evangelical who had come by to try and convert my Dad. The Christian would be sitting there cool as cucumber, reciting c hapter and versewhile Dad and I were passionately articulating what was, in the end, clearly also belief however, rooted in evidentiary scientific data collection and analysiswhich we loved and could only wish that the fellow sitting across the table would love God as much. Moreover, Olson’s recognition and understanding of deep time and evolutionary biology manifested, in part, due to what Olson called her “racial memories.” Olson described a series of instances throughout her life, in which she experienced a deep sense of felt connections to items from a particular culture different from the one that she was brought up in. “I call them racial memories” she said, because “I had a Native American friend who called them racial memories.” She elaborated: I don’t know what they are. To me, it felt transformative, but at the same time not alien, or an outside force at allit was a unique experience of the past —but very

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187 clearly MY past. So , to me, it [was] more like the activation of a part of me that hadn’t been activated and was suddenly activated by this tactile, visual and tact ile, experience of this thing that I hadn’t ever experienced in this way before. The first experience Olson described, took place when she was around seven years old. Being a child who loved to sew, Olson would often ask to be dropped off at the fabric store in Lafayette, Indiana, while her mother did other errands. Olson recalled: One time, I went into the felt isle and I got so incredibly immersed in wool felt fabric that it was like the room disappeared, and the town disappeared, and the time disappeared, and the only thing that existed was me and that felt. I mean it was like a cosmic moment that went on for far too long for my mother who was sitting in the car on the curb, to the point that she had to park and get out of the car and come in and find me. She was upset . And I wasn’t out there because I was literally lost in time in this felt aisle. The experience, Olson said, was so powerful that she did not go back to the fabric store for a while, and when she did eventually return, she avoided the f elt aisle if she knew her mother was going to be waiting for her. When she was old enough to go by herself, the experience happened every time she went on the felt aisle – “like a wormhole ,” Olson said. Years later while in college, Olson had another such experience when she saw a picture of a Yurt for the first time. She became obsessed with the dwelling and was completely distracted from her schoolwork. Since that time, Olson has had a number of similar experiences. With all those memories, she said, ther e were elements of deep time. Soon after the experience with the Yurt, Olson said that she looked back and understood all of those experiences as connected, and as being from a single culture. After finishing college: I confronted my father and I said, “ D ad, you always said we were Black Swedes; what the hell is a Black Swede?” And he didn’t say anything, and I said, “ It’s really a Mongol isn’t it? ” and he looked extremely uncomfortable and said, “ Well we weren’t supposed to talk about it . ” Olson explai ned that her grandmother’s maiden name, Munthe, was “known in Sweden to be a Mongolian name” and that “Swedish immigrants to the United States are aware of Mongolian

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188 blood in their communities .” When I asked her how she would define the term “racial memori es” she said, “it’s an ad hoc term, so specifically define, I wouldn’t .” She went on to say, however, that she used the term “racial memories” to connote an instance in which: Some element of one’s currentsurroundsome element of where you are, triggers a potent experience that feels like your own, but it is something you have never had, seen, thought, experienced before, and it is immersive, engulfing andfeels transformativeand for me, Iwould say that there is an element of deep t ime. For Olson, the e xperience was also grounded in, and inseparable from, evolutionary biology as a scientific fact. As a biologist, I do understand both genetics and epigenetics to be forces in our beings —each individual, during our lives. So, in a real way, the Mongol and other ancestors live on in us so, maybe I have either genes or epigenetic functions that predispose me to these experiences and maybe, just maybe, there is effectively information that could be characterized as “ memory ” transmitted between generations. Olson made it clear that her biological and holistic worldview is informed by her deep time experiences and that she did not connect these ideas to the Buddhist notion of reincarnation. Nevertheless, Olson’s worldview, coupled with her deep time experienc es, and her own spiritual proclivities helps to reveal dynamic layers of (in)visibility. Olson pointed out one particular (in)visibility: It’s interesting. Physically, I am the family member who looks the least like a Mongol – my two sisters look very Asia n, they had long dark hair and very flat faces I don’t read visually as Asian. My sisters got very little identification though. And I seem to have come out without the looks but with the history. In one respect, Olson’s heritage is rendered invisible b y her physical appearance, and her lack of phenotypical association with her biological ancestry. At the same time, however, her heritage becomes visible through her lived, embodied experience of her racial memories. In another respect, layers of (in)visib ility are apparent in the failure to understand the earth as a holistic

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189 ecosystem. This failure renders deep time evolutionary processes obscure and contributes significantly to our failure to understand the multi generational consequences of radioactive nuclear waste. As these two Chapter s have shown, a multitude of (in)visibilities exist in the lives of women in particular. When taken altogether, these (in)visibilities shed light not only on the role of women in the anti nuclear movement , but they also re veal much about women, women’s environmental work, and women’s power.

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190 CHAPTER 7 TRIAL BY “THE POISON FIRE”: ON DR. JOANNA MACY, WENDY OSER, AND NUCLEAR GUARDIANSHIP I saw a two inch blurb, I think it was in the San Francisco Chronic le , about there being a workshop led by Joanna Macy. I said, ‘I don’t know what this is, I don’t know who this is, but I think I am supposed to be there’. So I went . Wendy Oser1 Figure 71: A Portrait of Dr. Joanna Macy2 1 All quotations in this Chapter attributed t o Wendy Oser and not otherwise cited were gathered from a series of telephone interviews with the author on 13 November 2013; 24 September 2019; 10 October 2019; and 20 October 2020 and from emails exchanged on 24 January 2021. 2 Image obtained from “Work That Reconnects Network” (n.d.).

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191 Figure 7-2: A Portrait of Wendy Oser3 In 2020, Wendy Oser told me about her initial meeting with Joanna Macy in 1983 and explained the impact that meeting had on her: she counts Macy among the most influential people in her life. Oser is far from the only person to express that sentiment . In 2020, Stephanie Kaza published an edited volume entitled A Wild Love for the World: Joanna Macy and the Work of Our Time . It serves as a testament to Macy’s inspirational work to protect and preserve the biosphere for future beings, as well as to her impact on individuals and groups around the world. As Andy Fisher put it, Macy “has been a major role model and living inspiration, walking with the likes of Rachel Carson and Gautama Buddha – all those wise ones who have gone before, teaching the noble things we still urgently need to learn today” (Fisher 2020, 89). 3 Image provided by Wendy Oser.

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192 Much of Macy’s life and work has been well documented, both in her own prolific writings and in numerous books and articles written about her.4 Among her many accomplishments, she is perhaps m ost well known for her experimental group work on Despair and Empowerment, now known as The Work That Reconnects (“Work That Reconnects Network” n.d.; “The Work That Reconnects” n.d.; Macy and Brown 2014). Incorporating the Deep Ecology teachings of Norwegian philosopher Arne Nss, Buddhist practice, systems thinking, and ecopsychology, the Work that Reconnects (henceforth the Work) aims to help people come to terms with their grief, anger, and fear about the possibility of planetary apocalypse brought on b y nuclear technologies and the threat of nuclear war. Since the first workshop in 1980, The Work has been taught around the world. Among her other accomplishments, Macy worked with well known Australian activist John Seed5 and developed the Council of All Beings (COAB) in 1985 (Macy 2005). The COAB is a group ritual practice designed to teach people to step away from their anthropocentric worldviews and think from the perspective of other than human beings. Moreover, the ri tual promotes an understanding of human interdependence with other beings and Earth’s environmental systems by enabling participants to reflect on the shared suffering caused by anthropogenic climate change. Of particular importance is the role that Macy’s religious worldview, informed both by her upbringing in Protestant Christianity and her later training in Buddhist scholarship and practice, has had in shaping her environmental engagement. In addition to he r activist work, 4 For a comprehensive list of works by and about Macy, including a complete list of interviews she has given, see Kaza ( 2020: 36575 ) . See also “Joanna Macy & Her Work” ( n.d. ) , for a complete list of Macy’s books, articles, and multimedia publications. For a biographical account of Macy, see Macy ( 2000 ) and Strobel ( 2005 ) . 5 John Seed is the founder and director of Rainforest Information Center in Australia (see “The Rainforest Information Center” n.d. ). For more information about Seed, see Taylor ( 2005b, 151314) ; For more information About the Council of All Beings, see Mac y ( 2000, 222 2 9 ) and Seed and Macy ( 2007) .

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193 Macy is also a respected scholar of Buddhism. She earned her Ph.D. in Religious Studies from Syracuse University in 1978, working under the direction of Huston C. Smith, a leading scholar of comparative religion in the United States. Her g roundbreaking dissertation work which integrated perspectives from Buddhism and General Systems Theory was published as Mutual Causality in Buddhism and General Systems Theory (Macy 1991b) . In addition to her professional role, Macy was a devoted wife to her husband of fifty six years, Fran Underhill Macy (1927 – 2009), and is the mother of three children, Chris, Jack, and Peg. Macy initially met Fran while they were in college, but they paid little mind to each other during those years. In 1952 the two me t again while Macy was living in Washington, D.C. She had moved to Washington in 1951 after being recruited by the CIA when the organization learned of her Fulbright research on the French Communist Party. Macy was trained and excelled in the CIA Career Of ficer Training Program, though she only participated in overt programs during her brief tenure. Macy married Fran in May 1953 after a short courtship and engagement. However, her role as wife and mother was far from traditional. Her non monogamous partners hip with Fran challenged traditional ideas of marriage and gender stereotypes. Macy found that “sexual exclusivity did not conform to the truth of [her] own experience” and viewed monogamy “as a patriarchal institution whose original motives had to do with economic control” (Macy 2000 , 149). Moreover, her family’s communal living arrangements, a venture which began in 1975 while Macy was in graduate school, challenged the traditional nuclear family model and helped to eliminate the “exhausting burden it imp osed on wife and mother” (Macy 2000, 152). Reflecting on his own experience as part of the “600 Allen” communal living house, Philip Novak wrote that Macy “knew from direct experience how all too often the unwritten job description of the nuclear family mo m is to mastermind the universe on a

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194 daily basis” and was committed to the communal living style because it gave her more time to devote to her graduate studies (Novak 2020, 33). The many freedoms provided by communal living also allowed Macy more time to explore her own passions, travel, and develop her work – including her anti nuclear activism which began in the late 1970s. Although much of Macy’s life and work has been well documented, little scholarly attention has focused on the anti nuclear organiz ation she developed beginning in 198 8, the Nuclear Guardianship Project (NGP). In fact, most of the scholarly and public attention that is paid to her anti nuclear proclivities link her activist work to the Work. And though there are important connections between the two, as I will show, the dearth of scholarly attention paid to her work on the NGP precludes a full understanding of the development of Macy’s thinking about nuclear technologies. Despite its short duration, the NGP proved an important step in Macy’s enlightened thinking about planetary interdependence and the role of nuclear technologies, directly influencing her understanding of Deep Time. Exploring the NGP also reveals insights about other women involved in the group, including Wendy Oser, a n anti nuclear activist and Chernobyl downwinder, who played an important role in the NGP, and whose story has not otherwise been documented. Oser worked alongside Macy and others in the NGP to teach people about safe storage and guardianship of nuclear wa ste for the protection of future generations. Through an exploration of their shared work, I will show how the collaborative work that women have done in the anti nuclear movement can provide positive, integrative, experiences despite the often debilitatin g grief and side effects experienced in the face of nuclear waste. Macy’s Early Life: Reflections on the Religious Roots of Environmentalism Joanna Macy was born Joanna Rogers on 2 May 1929 in North Hollywood, California, the second of three children and only daughter of Hartley and Margaret Rogers. In her memoir,

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195 Widening Circles, Macy fondly recalled childhood summers spent on her grandparents’ farm in western New York (Macy 2000). Macy’s grandfather, Louis Gould Rogers, whom she fondly called “Ouie ,” w as a minister, descended from a long line of Puritans dating back to her great great great grandfather Ebenezer Rogers, who came to New York in 1820 as a working parson ( Macy 2000, 5). Macy’s father was the first man in five generations to forego a life in the church and became a stockbroker in the early 1920s ( Macy 2000, 6). Macy’s religious education began in Ouie’s church, where she attended Sunday services during the summers of her youth. She recalled feeling at home there and took comfort in Ouie’s tea chings, especially when, at the age of 10, her life at home began falling apart ( Macy 2000, 9, 19). The Roger’s had moved to a small apartment on East 86th Street in Manhattan, due in part to proximity to her father’s job, but also because of the increasing burden of financial strain. Her parent’s relationship was devolving, and verbal and emotional outbursts from her father were common. Macy began to harbor fears that her mother might choose suicide as a method of escape from the abuse ( Macy 2000, 156). As a result, she became outspoken against her father, “hammering” on the bedroom door and “shouting at him to leave Mama alone” ( Macy 2000, 14). Macy later likened his behavior to gaslighting, a type of emotional abuse used to manipulate victims into questioning their experience of events, and even their own sanity ( Macy 2000, 36). From those early experiences, Macy concluded that “if feelings have to be hidd enthey must be unacceptable” ( Macy 2000, 16). Her understanding of how to process and work through emotions, however, especially those of grief and despair, would change dramatically over time, greatly influencing her lifework. The following summer at her grandparent’s farm she attempted to read the Bible but found the dictum to be “good and obedient” at odds with the teachings of her school which

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196 encouraged students to be “smart and cynical”: “neither ,” she wrote, “allowed much room for fallibility or grief” ( Macy 2000, 18). Her grandfather, sensing her internal despair, and likely aware of the troubles at home, taught Macy a verse from Matthew 11: 28 – 29: “Come unto me, all ye who labor and are heavyladen, and I will give you rest. Take my yoke upon you and learn of me, and you shall find rest unto your soul” ( Macy 2000, 19). Macy wrote that learning the meaning of this verse “changed everything” for her despite the escalation of her father’s abuse and control as she moved into adolescence and adulthood ( Macy 2000, 19). By sixteen, Macy was “pretty thoroughly imbued with Protestant Christianity” ( Macy 2000, 34) and found affinity in “St. Francis’ hymn ‘All Creatures’” because it spoke to “the wonders [she] loved most, addressing them directly” (Macy 200 0, 35). 6 She also found, however, that the “resentful self enclosure” she was experiencing for the guilt of hatred, not of her father but “for what [she] let that hatred do to [her]was ultimately a denial in life[and] made [her] an accomplice to the wor ld’s suffering” ( Macy 2000, 38). In 2020, Macy also wrote of her early realization that “if we’re all connected enough to belong to one anotherthen we’re connected enough to hurt one another, a lot ,” a lesson that was reinforced by her grandmother, Daidee, when she reminded Macy: “And Jesus said, In as much as ye have done unto the least of these my brethren, ye have done unto me” (Macy 2020b, 4, emphasis in original). These early religious lessons would shape Macy’s life in dynamic ways. Among those valuable takeaways that would later influence her work, she learned that “openness of your own heart” and “talking to people in groups” could help alleviate suffering, whether your own, or that of others (Macy 2000, 39, 41). 6 In her Chapter “Trust in Life ,” Macy wrote similarly in 2020, adding the qualifier “liberal” to the statement that “by sixteen I was pretty thoroughly imbued with liberal Protestant Christianity” (Macy 2020 b, 3).

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197 The Turning of the Wheel Macy attended the Lyce Franis de New York, a foreign language school, through her primary and secondary education. In 2021, she told me “the way my mind works has been very influenced by that classic French education .” Like her older brother, Hartley, Macy wa s at the top of her class when she graduated from secondary school at only sixteen . Yet, when the time came for her to go to college, her father refused to provide financial support. “My father saw no reason to send me to college” Macy said in our interview. 7 “Though he supported both my brothers to go toYale Universitywhen I asked him about my goinghe didn’t give me two cents.” Undeterred, her mother helped facilitate her college education, and with scholarships and five hundred dollars from her step g reat grandmother, Macy enrolled in Wellesley College, a private women’s college in Massachusetts. At Wellesley, Macy studied Religion, which was, at the time, primarily focused on Jewish and Christian traditions. By her senior year, however, Macy had grown bored of the topic and her grades were slipping, though she did not want to acknowledge her growing disillusionment. Recognizing her growing indifference to the subject, her mentor called her into his office and encouraged her to stop “fighting for it to make sense” challenging her to go ahead and be an atheist if she wanted to ( Macy 2000, 52). Macy knew that his words were intended to make her “fall back into the arms of the faith [she] once had” (Macy 2000 , 52). However, they had the opposite effect. M acy wrote: “the idea that I could simply loosen my grip on Christianity, relinquish it even, had never occurred to me” ( Macy 2000, 53). Inspired in part by her mother’s then recent and bold action to divorce her father, Macy decided to walk away from her study of 7 All quotations in this Chapter attributed to Joanna Macy and not otherw ise cited were gathered from a series of telephone interviews with the author on 22 July 2019, 5 August 2019, and 19 August 2019 and by Zoom on 3 February 2021.

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198 r eligion. She recalled feeling immense relief at the decision ( Macy 2000, 53). Religion, however, would continue to play a prominent role later in Macy’s life, especially after her introduction to Buddhism. It would also come to play an important role in informing and shaping her anti nuclear work. Macy traced her first experience with Buddhism to the birth of her second son, Jack, in 1957. Recalling her experience under ether during his birth, Macy wrote: I am lifted up, high over the world. Yet I am also at the heart of the world, and a giant wheel is turning – and the manner of its turning is the secret of all things. I am on it, spreadeagled across its spokes, my head near its open center. Sometimes it seems I could be the wheel, I’m so inseparable from it. I feel the spokes shudder through my body with alternating and intensifying sensations. There is only the turnin g of the wheel, and the hole in the center that allows it to turn. I accept, as if I have always known, the inevitability and accuracy of what now is revealed . ( Macy 2000, 7475) It was several years later, however, in 1965, before Macy connect ed her expe rience during Jack’s birth to the Buddhist tradition. The Macy’s were living in India in 1965, where Fran had been stationed with the Peace Corps . While there, Macy was invited by the Peace Corps S ecretary to accompany her on a trip to Dharamshala because she needed a driver. Volunteers were not allowed to drive, and the secretary was too nervous to do so. When Macy was presented with the opportunity to observe the Tibetan New Year and receive the blessing of the Dalai Lama, she leapt at the opportunity ( M acy 2000, 86). As she exited her meeting with the Dalai Lama “an adornment overhead caught [her] eye”: it was “a large eight spoked wheel, flanked by kneeling deer, stood upright against the sky” ( Macy 2000, 9091). Macy learned that the symbol was the Wheel of the Dharma ( Dharma Chakra) , which is considered a sacred symbol. Macy later wrote: The memory of the great wheel on which I had hung and turned had never dimmed in the seven years since the ether experience at Jack’s birth. It had let me glimpse a vast, underlying order that connected and made sense of all things, and

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199 left me with the ho pe that I might some day be able to understand. Now in India, among the Tibetans, I encountered it again. Had the Dharma been in store for me all along? This time, instead of fear, I felt only awe and promise . ( Macy 2000, 91) After meeting with the Tibeta ns, Macy was drawn to the Tibetan Buddhist tradition and began to study the Dharma on her own. Increasingly enamored by the tradition, Macy sought guidance from Freda Bedi (also known as “Mummy”), a friend and ordained nun, who would later become Sister K arma Khechog Palmo. Mummy trained her in satipatthana meditation, a mindfulness technique from the school of Theravada Buddhism ( Macy 2000, 103). Macy would continue to practice the tradition and would go on to enroll in graduate school at Syracuse Univers ity to study Buddhism. Several years later, in 1974, Mummy visited the Macy’s while they were living in Syracuse. On 3 March, Macy “took the refuge” completing the “ceremony of taking refuge in the Buddha, the Dharma, and the Sangha whichmarked a deepening of intention” to practice Buddhism ( Macy 2000, 13738). Macy was given the name “Karma Samten Dolma,” 8 which she was dissatisfied by, preferring “something more action oriented” ( Macy 2000, 138). Despite the given name, Macy would go on to become very politically active. Later, when she began thinking about the effects of nuclear power and climate change, Buddhism would come to play an important role in her teachings. “Vipassana practice” she wrote, “seemed designed” for helping us “find a way to live in this planet time without closing our eyes to what we’re doing” ( Macy 2000, 173). She continued, “it had taught me that we’re perfectly capable of sustained attention to the flow through of experience, including the failing condition of our world and the despair that evokes” ( Macy 2000, 173). 8 Of the translation of this name, Macy wrote, “Karma means I was initiated into the lineage of His Holiness Karmapa. Samten means meditation. And Dolma is the Tibetan name for Tara, a devotional form of Prajna Paramita, Perfection of Wisdom, symbolizing her compassion” (Macy 2000, 138).

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200 “Positive Disintegration” For Macy, one such example of despair w as influenced by the ongoing use of nuclear technologies. Macy was sixteen in 1945 when the United States dropped the atomic bomb on Hiroshima. Reflecting on her memory of the event, she later wrote: There was this sudden feeling of an unaccountable weight . There was no clear reason then for the sense of foreboding, no way to explain what I sensed only with my body – that we had done something unnecessary and irrevocable that would change us forever . (Macy 2000, 41) She was haunted by that feeling, which would resurface again, years later. While working for the CIA in 1953, Macy watched the first footage of the hydrogen bomb tests on Eniwetok Atoll, which was, at that time, classified ( Macy 2000, 67). “There it was again” she wrote, “that same chilling foreboding that had come over mewith the news of Hiroshima, the same sense of an irrevocable shift of fate (Macy 2000, 67). Decades later, in 1976, her son Jack came home from his first semester of college with a paper entitled “Thermal Pollution from Nuclear Reactors” ( Macy 2000, 168). After reading the paper and beginning to do her own research on the effects of nuclear power and nuclear waste, Macy wrote that she, “felt chilled to the core of my being, awkward with the grief, baffled that we should be born to it” (Macy 2000, 171). Macy has since attributed the beginning of her interest in the nuclear issue to Jack’s paper (Macy 2000 , 2011).9 Soon thereafter, in June 1978, she and Jack (who had become a member of the Clamshell Alliance) participated in th e protest at Seabrook Nuclear Plant (Macy 2000 , 17677). Macy took her turn on the platform, alongside rock bands and scientists, to speak to the thousands of protesters gathered. In 1978, Macy also began to attended conferences and working groups 9 Oser also conveyed this story to me, linking the beginning of Macy’s interest in nuclear issues to Jack’s college paper, in our interview in 2013.

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201 facilita ted by Ralph Nader’s anti nuclear organization Critical Mass ( Macy 2000, 174). There, she volunteered to work on a legal project concerning Virginia Electric Power Company (VEPCO) and the North Anna nuclear reactor in Louisa, Virginia. Confrontation around the North Anna reactor had developed for two primary reasons. VEPCO ha d proposed a change to the safe storage guidelines for irradiated fuel rods which, if passed, would allow them to store double the amount of irradiated fuel rods in their cooling pools, thus preventing them from running out of storage space. This was espec ially dangerous, opponents believed, because it “increased the risks of contamination, and of an accidental chain reaction” ( Macy 2000, 175). Moreover, the reactor was already at increased risk of an accident occurring, because it “had been built astride a n earthquake fault” ( Macy 2000, 175). “We lost the lawsuit ,” Macy recalled in 2019, “but the effect of that on me was profound,” she said. Macy participated in the team gathering health information. Her findings made a lasting impact: no one wanted to talk about the health effects, especially the dramatic increase in still births, miscarriages, and birth defects the closer expectant mothers lived to the power plant. Macy went on to express her confusion and curiosity, saying “I began to question it it di dn’t make sense to me.” She continued: It was this fear of painful information. The government didn’t need to make it secret, the industry didn’t need to classify it, because the people classified it themselves. That was what fascinated me. I wanted to kn ow why – why do people seem not to care? Because they clearly cared for their families in every other respect. And so, I began to experiment with and do research and just ponder what causes us to shut down and avoid knowing things that actually effect our lives and well being. Is it because we are afraid of being considered too emotional, afraid of being considered unpatriotic, afraid of facing moral pain or mental distress?

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202 Beginning in 1978, Macy envisioned the creation of despair work, namely, group e xercises designed to help people acknowledge and come to terms with their grief, anger, and fear about the possibility of planetary apocalypse brought on by nuclear technologies. In late March of 1979, Macy facilitated a public meeting at the Louisa County courthouse where she intended to show a video that dramatized a nuclear meltdown. When she arrived, there was no need for the video because the first nuclear disaster in United States history had just occurred in Pennsylvania at the Three Mile Island nu clear power plant. That evening, Macy facilitated a public discussion to a huge audience about the creation of evacuation plans for the citizens of Louisa in case a nuclear meltdown would occur at North Anna. This led her to doing similar workshops elsewhere and to understand that people cared very much but struggled to come to terms with their emotional pain and despair in the face of nuclear disaster. In June 1979, Macy published an article entitled “How to Deal with Despair ,” which presaged decades of w ork to come: Despair cannot be banished by sermons on “ positive thinking ” or injections of optimism. Like grief, it must be worked through. It must be named, and validated as a healthy, normal, human response to the planetary situation. Faced and experienced, despair can be used : as the psyche’s defenses drop away, new energies are released. I am convinced that we can come to terms with apocalyptic anxieties in ways that are integrative and liberating, opening awareness not only to planetary dis tress, but also to the hope inherent in our own capacity to change. To do so, a process analogous to grief work is in order. “Despair work” is distinct in that its aim is not acceptance of loss (indeed, the “loss” has not yet occurred and is hardly to be “ accepted”), but similar in the dynamics unleashed by the willingness to acknowledge, feel, and express inner pain. (Macy 1979, 4142) Macy left the U.S. soon thereafter and went to Sri Lanka to do field work, which she conducted from June 1979 to June 1980. She had been invited by A.T. Ariyaratna, the founder of Sri Lanka’s Sarvodaya Sharmadana Movement, to come to study the role religion played in the movement, which she later wrote about in Dharma and Development ( Macy 1983b). When she

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203 received a grant f rom the Ford Foundation to do so, Macy eagerly leapt at the opportunity to return to Sri Lanka (Macy 1983b, 9). Informed by the teachings of Gandhi, the Sarvodaya movement fused indigenous knowledge of Sinhalese Buddhism with grassroots community engagemen t to reduce ethnic and religious conflict, and promote equitable accessibility to basic human needs, from clean drinking water to education and a clean environment. Macy was surprised to learn of the degree to which religion informed the movement : it permeates the movement at every level, shaping not only its goals but its tactics, not only at Headquarters but in the village, not only among monks and temple devotees but among tenant farmers and school dropouts . ( Macy 1983b, 11) Importantly, Macy also wrote about the specific and important role that women played in the Sarvodaya movement. Despite social customs, asserted by a patriarchal worldview, that “discouraged [women] from playing a public role ,” Macy wrote that the Sarvodaya movement: succeeded in giving women a prominent role in the “ awakening ” of their villages. Indeed, on the grassroots level, more women than men participate in Sarvodaya, not just as silent partners but as active organizers and spokespersons . ( Macy 1983b, 79) Moreover, religion played a significant role in enabling women to be more active in the movement, through ritual activities, nonpartisan engagement, family planning, moral engagement, and the value and importance placed on traditional, gendered, roles. Many of the lessons that Macy learned, and later wrote about, during her time in Sri Lanka would resonate in her own activist work and influenced her teaching when she returned to the United States. Among those ideas that she learned from the Sarvodaya moveme nt that later became apparent in her own teaching are these: the importance of grassroots efforts to facilitate social change; an emphasis on solidarity and community; emboldening individuals to speak out ; and, bestowing a sense of ownership over the issue at hand.

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204 On her way home from Sri Lanka in the summer of 1980, Macy did the first workshop she titled “From Despair to Empowerment” which she presented at a conference held by the Society of Friends (aka Quakers) in California (Macy 2000 , 210). During our 2019 interview she laughed as she recalled this initial workshop and said, “I thought I would do just the one and then get back to my life plans.” When Macy returned home in June of that year , “there had been hundreds of letters from readers, and [she] was being asked to do workshops on what [she] had written on how to deal with despair .” At that time, Macy chose to change the name of the workshop: “After the first workshop, ‘From Despair to Empowerment ,” I dropped the prepositions, substituting ‘and.’ This was not about shedding our pain for the world, but about learning to use it as proof of our connection and source of strength” ( Macy 2000, 213). This shift was important, for it recognized that grief need not be debilitating nor isolating. Rather, gri ef could be productive, functioning as a means to bring people together to experience and learn from their shared pain, suffering, and fears. As she continued to teach sessions, and trained others to teach them as well, Macy incorporated lessons of meditat ion and mindfulness, learned from her training with Buddhist monks and nuns, into the groupwork. Her book Despair and Personal Power in the Nuclear Age (1983a) is a testament to the role that her Buddhist teaching played in the formation of the despair wor k. It includes metaphors of “awakening” to the Nuclear threat that parallel the awakening when one “takes the refuge” and awakens to the Buddha, Dharma, and Shangha, as well as metaphors of “the turning ,” akin to the turning of the wheel of Dharma (see, fo r instance, Macy 1983a , 34, 116 respectively). In “Guarding the Earth,” Macy spoke to the role of mindfulness in guardianship work:

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205 Mindfulness helps us disidentify. We don’t have to approve or disapprove of what we’re being mindful about. Whatever we are looking at is just there. And this stance helps us a lot in being present. Along with training in technical procedures, mindfulness is the training that is required . (Nisker and Gates 2000, 293) These teachings work to “awaken” participants to the unders tanding that their anxieties are shared, and that grief is the emotional expression of love for our planet. When despair is understood and accepted, Macy said, it can result in what Polish (Macy 1979, 2017 [1964]). “Occurring when individuals internalize painful contradictions in human experience,” Macy wrote, “positive disintegration can appear as a dark night of the soul, a time of spiritual void and turbulence” (Macy 1979, 43). However, Macy continued quoting Dabrowski, “the anxieties and doubts are ‘essentially healthy and creative’ – not only for the person but for society, because they permit new and original approaches to reality” ( Macy 1979, 43; Macy’s despair work has been an important part of her life ever since. More importantly, however, her work has helped many others to deal with the oftendebilitating grief that arises with the realization of the side effects of nuclear power. Among those numerous people who have benefited from Macy’s wisdom and the integrative effects of her despair work, is Wendy Oser. Oser’s Early Life – Energetic Roots of Environmental Action Wendy Eve Oser was born on 15 April 1939 in Philadelphia, Pennsylvania, the second daughter of Jesse and Ruth Oser. Oser’s parents “considered themselves progressive and modern” and were “interested in the leading edge of everything.” When she was six years old, Oser’s family relocated to Los Angeles, California. Her parents enrolled Oser in an elementary education program on the campus of University of California Los Angeles at a teacher training

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206 school that used the innovative teaching methods of John Dewey. “They were willing to do whatever they could think of to see to it that we had the best ,” Oser recalled. “When they found the best theater school or the best dance teachers, or the best music teachers for my sister and me, my mother would volunteer to help run their business so that we could get tuition there .” In turn, Oser was well behaved and worked hard to excel, motivated by her parents’ expectations and confidence in her. Oser’s parents were non practicing Jews and the children were raised as atheists in a progressive household. Oser attributed her upbringing as an atheist primarily to her mother. Ruth Oser, who was born in the early 1900s , was the child of immigrants from Eastern Europe. She was “active in the left wing movement ,” was “always progressive,” and had “high standards .” Oser recalled that when she was in her 40s, Ruth saw a book about prayer on her bookshelf. “We don’t do that – we don’t believe that ,” Ruth had said, a dictum that reinforced her own worldview. Oser’s father, on the other hand, had a “soft spot in his heart for Hasidism” which “came from him being moved by the music and dance” of Jewish culture. “That is rooted in me too” Oser added. A dancer throughout her life, Oser explained: I know things through my body. When I dance, I spread my feet a little and sway side to side – I think of this as my energetic roots going down into the earth and the mother, the earth, receives it like massage, and she is very grateful for it. Oser also attributed many of her life long passions, as well as parts of her worldview to things her parents taught her as a child. Along with her passion for dance, theater and music have always been important in Oser’s life, and those interests were cultivated a nd supported by her parents. At the age of eight, Oser was enrolled in the Young Actors Company and she participated in the theater until she was thirteen. The Company was taught by Viola Spolin who, as Oser said, “became known as the

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207 mother of improvisational theater in America .” Because she was a very quiet child, Oser’s parents believed that theater work would help her become more extroverted. Oser also attended “hootenannies” between the ages of ten and fifteen and learned voice with the then young acti vist and folk musician Pete Seeger , singer Odetta, and others . There she experienced a universal connection with all humanity. “Our parent’s passion for the arts and compassion for humanity stayed [with us] ,” Oser said, speaking for both herself and her si ster. Importantly, Oser’s first introduction to antinuclear activism also came through the performing arts. In our 2020 interview she detailed her introduction to nuclear activism a fundraising event for an anti nuclear campaign that she participated in around the time she was eight years old. Oser portrayed a schoolgirl who was too afraid to participate in public school drop drills and would freeze in place, as opposed to hiding under her desk as was required at the time. Around the same time, Oser recalled, “there was a big petition campaign for Atoms for Peace, which we thought was a possibility for a while .” Oser “took that petitiondoor to dooraround the apartment building that [her] music teacher lived in.” Thus began her activist career, Oser ex plained. There were other formative lessons that she learned in childhood that helped shape her worldview, and in particular her later anti nuclear work. She learned compassion from her parents, and through dancing and the music of different peoples. Ref lecting on her memories in 2019, Oser drew a clear connection between those early teachings of compassion and the activism that she went on to do as an adult. [My parents] experienced and passed on to me a love for humanity as a whole, for sensitivity to t he pain and the suffering of all people, and, I guess also optimism, which I don’t exactly have right now, but hope that by being activists that we could make a difference in the outcome.

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208 This sense of compassion and felt connection for others was also r einforced by other experiences during her adolescence. “The United Nations was formed when I was a young schoolgirl ,” Oser explained. In elementary school, she represented China at a mock UN session and studied a variety of different cultures, which gave h er a “strong identification with other people that was not [representative of] the population of the school at the time .” Her musical education was yet another example. “[Seeger] had a way of leading the group in singing that was profoundly different than singing alone ,” Oser recalled. The singing helped her feel more connected to other people and understand the powerful effects of working together, in connection, with a group. Oser traced her worldview and political activism to these early childhood memories: I felt something then that I did not feel much again in adult lifeuntil I had children. I felt something universal, profound, and deeply in my spirit or soul that the only thing I could refer back to was this sense of community. Those early things l ed me to value nonhierarchical activity and engagement. The lessons that Oser learned in her early life from her parents and through her engagement in the performing arts also helped to shape her environmental proclivities and her anti nuclear work in dynamic ways. In 1959, at twentyyearsold, Oser married Iden Goodman. Oser and Goodman were married for thirteen years and had three children together: Aaron (1962 ), Naomi (1964 ) and Zachary (1966 ). Oser acknowledged in our interviews that her ma rriage to Goodman afforded her opportunities that many other women did not have. Goodman was able to support the family in a comfortable lifestyle, and Oser did not have to earn money , allowing her the freedom to pursue her interests in family, arts, and a ctivism. Oser said: [Marrying someone who was financially secure] allowed me to devote myself to my children, which is one of the most powerful and contributory things I have done in my life. It taught me about love and about service in ways that just

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209 wer en’t available anywhere else. It freed me to be – to participate more in things of creativity, service, saving the world, being a good mother included, and having children who are now , in turn, contributors. Oser spoke in our interviews to her life long proclivity to learn and do new things, often moving from one passion project to another. Oser’s role as a mother was also a strong motivating factor for her political engagement. “What moved me deeply ,” Oser said, “was being a parent .” “It brought me to a new level of activism that was the outcome of a workshop process with Joanna .” We were to imagine that nuclear disaster had happened and we were sitting face to face in pairs, and the person into whose eyes we were looking was the last person we were g oing to have contact with before both of us died of radiation poisoning. And I pictured my daughter who I have always been motivated by. And that did it . There was nothing left of her but the pain in her eyes. There was nothing I could do. I was unwillin g to accept that I was helpless about that, and that contributed to the extent of my activism. It was because of seeing my daughter as she was dying from the radiation poisoning that I became that level of activist that I was for seven years. That motivat ed me in all the work I have done since. There was nothing that I could do to ease the pain that was happening to my daughter. Now I have eight grandchildren and I am moved deeply again. Oser went on to connect this identification with her daughter to her anti nuclear work and to her broader worldview. “[It motivated] how much I care about the next generations and I know that kind of experience is available to everyone .” In addition to her role as a mother, Oser’s understanding of community, learned from her participation in the arts as a child, has remained a strong motivator throughout her life. For Oser, community is linked to both her spiritual beliefs and environmental perspectives, and she understands individuals as members and contributors to a planetary community. Oser described herself as “spiritual, but not religious ,” adding that she has “never had much interest in religion” and its hierarchical worldview. On the other hand, Oser said that spirituality “is equally accessible to everyone.”

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210 In general , I think of it as having experiences and understanding and desire for knowing yourself to be part of a greater whole, and that people know it many ways, and have many practices in expressing their feelings of connection and gratitude. And it may be a natural human condition, but it may also have a message and ways of experiencing how one is a part of something that is larger than one’s self. Humans can’t survive alone, we have to be part of family, community . There is a link with environmentalism – for the community to survive, the environment also has to have our commitment to help maintain it in a healthy way, or we won’t make it. The connection that Oser drew between community and survival would prove a n important lesson in her own life as well. Disintegration – The Effects of Nuclear Technologies On 20 November 1983, American Broadcasting Company (ABC) aired a made for television movie entitled The Day After (Meyer 1983). Set in Kansas City, Missouri, the film depicted in gross detail the lives of rural survivors in the aftermath of total nuclear war between the U.S. and USSR . The highly advertised production broke records for viewers, eventually reaching approximately 100 million viewers (Stuever 2016) . Of primary concern to the media and to millions of citizens around the country was whether children would be harmed by seeing the devastating events of nuclear holocaust unfold in their living rooms. Psychologists for Social Responsibility (PsySR), e.g., a nonprofit organization founded in 1982 concurrently in California and New York with the mission of using psychological skills to help prevent nuclear war was intimately aware of the psychological toll the film might have on viewers, and especially chi ldren (“Psychologists for Social Responsibility” n.d.). Concerned with the potential for psychic numbing, or symptoms of psychological withdrawal based on trauma or fear, PsySR formulated workshops designed to facilitate group discussion after viewing the film. It was around that time when Oser saw a two inch story in the San Francisco Chronic le for a workshop taught by Joanna Macy. Oser attended the session with her partner, Tom Taussig, whom she had been with since five years after her marriage to Goodma n ended. In 2020, she

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211 explained that the workshop was “a product of PsySR ,” developed to be presented to group leaders, such as teachers and clergy, who already had experience leading group work sessions. “Joanna was key in its development ,” Oser noted, adding that there were between fifty and a hundred people present at the meeting, all interested in and committed to learning to conduct such sessions themselves. Recalling what the session was like, Oser said that participants were asked to reflect on the things they cared about, and what current global issues pained them. They were asked to reflect openly with the group and listen actively to others. Then there was a turing point. At a slow and mournful tempo, Oser also recited a song the group then sang t ogether: What shall I do when my children are crying? What shall I do, I don’t know what to do. Take your children in your arms and love them. [What shall I do] when the soldiers are crying?... An important element of the workshop was time where particip ants acknowledged that they do not have all the answers themselves and began to come to terms with the understanding that they “are not alone in the pain and suffering” they feel for the world or their sense of overwhelm or helplessness . In the final secti on, Oser said, participants reflected on the question “what are you willing to do this week to influence the outcome of this threat? ” At the end of the workshop, each small group was asked to make a “commitment to something [they] were willing to do that w eek in the interest of world peace, essentiallyin preventing nuclear war or accidents .” Oser’s partner, Taussig, suggested that the two of them could reproduce the training manual from the workshop and distribute it to others who were skilled in leading group work and might lead additional workshops . Oser and Taussig learned from their experience with Macy how to conduct the workshop. They also f acilitated the distribution of the groupwork model online to make it accessible to

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212 others. Portable computers were just starting to be manufactured. T hey ran a workshop at JFK University and trained others to conduct the workshop as well and presented the workshop themselves many times in Europe just before U.S. missiles were to be deployed there. “We should be doing this again now” Oser said, speaking of the workshops. They enable you to “get deeply in touch with your caring.” During the mid 1980s, Oser and Taussig were traveling in Europe for other workshops they were presenting there. “We trained people there to do it because U.S. missiles were about to be deployed there .” At 1:23 am MSD (Moscow Time) on Saturday, April 26, 1986, the core of the number four reactor at Chernobyl nuclear power plant in Soviet Ukraine (now Ukraine) melted down, precipitating a steam explosion and open air fire that released radiation into and surrounding environment and far away downwind. The nuclear disaster at Chernobyl r emains the worst nuclear disaster to date. Oser was in Central Europe at the time, on the Berlin Corridor. In her interview with Molly Young Brown for the Nuclear Guardianship Forum in 1993, Oser described her experience: I remained in Berlin, northern Austria and Czechoslovakia for the six weeks following. The last weekend in April, I was sitting on the patio with my partner and assistants after a workshop, when the weight of the radioactive rain water, which had accumulated in the awning overhead, burst and drenched us. We took a bath [showered] and washed our clothes. As I drove through the East German corridor a few days later, there was a tremendous noise and a small hole (still unexplained) appeared in the windshield in front of my face. We were not permitted to stop [on the Berlin Corridor] for help or repairs but had to drive on through the rain as the windshield gradually crumbled away. (Brown 1993, 8)10 10 Oser also recounted details of this story to me during our interviews in 2013, 2019, and 2020. In 2020, she added that “a stone broke the front windshield of the car, and it slowly shattered. It was raining hard, and this was nuclear contaminated rain .” In 2021, she offered the corrections to the quote that appear in brackets in the original text published by Brown.

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213 Having already been involved in anti nuclear work, Oser was familiar with the potentially dangerous effects of nuclear fallout, including from a rainout, where particles of radioactive material are removed from the atmosphere by rain, and then permeate the land. Moreover, she understood that her risk of experiencing side effects was elevated by her double exposure within the course of one week. In our interview, Oser spoke to her decision to remain in Europe at the time, despite her fears. We thought “ we h ave the freedom here to leave and go home, but the people here don’t.” And they were [asking] “ would you please bring milk from Holland to Germany for our babies, for our childrenbecause we cannot use fresh milk from the cows now.” So, I got more steeped in it that way. And we did that workshop I don’t know how many times and I would always cry. Shortly thereafter, and before she returned to the United States, Oser began to experience symptoms that she attributed to her radiation exposure. “Trial by the ‘Poison Fire’” 11 The Effects of Nuclear Radiation Exposure The first sign was an “itch .” It began, Oser recalled, “as pinpoints on my hips and spread symmetrically until a fiery burning covered my entire body, except my palms, soles, and hair. The sensation was intolerable” (Brown 1993, 8). Oser also developed a rash, and said at times, the pain and burning was so bad that “I wanted to remove my skin about a quarter of an inch beneath the surface” (Brown 1993, 8) – “I could have broken my skin all over just scratching, it was that bad .” “Nobody knew what it was ,” she told me. Oser was never officially diagnosed with radiation poisoning, though the timeline of the development of her symptoms suggests a correlation. 11 Quote from Wendy Oser in Brown ( 1993 , 8 ) .

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214 The health problems she attributed to radiation side effects played a formative role in Oser’s life from that point forward. In addition to the physical symptoms, which persisted for nine months, Oser also said that she suffered “mental, emotional, and spiritual consequences” in the wake of her exposure (Brown 1993, 8). She recalled: Although I tried to continue my life as if I were healthy, my thinking was still impaired. After a year, I was weeping most of the time and could sustain neither my primary relationship nor my work. I considered the possibility that I had fulfilled my purpose as a cell in the body of planet Earth (replaced myself with three reproductive offspring), and was thus being sloughed off . (Brown 1993, 8) Oser recalled that Taussig, “didn’t understand how seriously [her] physical and mental health had been compromised.” Oser said, “an inner voice tol d me, ‘Stop everything; devote yourself entirely to healing, as if your life depends on it. It does!’” (Brown 1993, 8). “There are always multiple reasons” why relationships end, Oser told me. “One of the true stories about it,” she recalled, is inscribed in the pages of her private journals, written at the time. There was a beach house on the property of my partner. I was so incapable of functioning at a normal level that I thought I had to give myself totally over to healing or I am not going to make i t. So , I went down to the beach house that some people had been living in and my partner, Tom, was upset that I did that without giving him a chance to make a decision about it because it was his property. And then as I was less available to him as a part ner, he took up with another woman. I explored within myself whether I could work with that, and I couldn’t so that was how the relationship ended. With her mental and physical health at risk, and life as she had previously known it disintegrating, Oser decided to devote herself to healing. For a full year I simply watched the tide and the sunsets. I watched TV, I sang and danced in prayerful yearning for connection with Life; I saw specialists, straight and alternative, took antihistamines, applied cor tisone, tried homeopathy and body work, grieved for myself and the world in psychotherapy, spent time at a spiritual healing center, and embarked on a program of dietary cleansing, detoxification, hormones, and antidepressants. Except for one deepening

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215 friendship (with a woman struck with Chronic Fatigue Immune Dysfunction Syndrome), I gave up all social contact . (Brown 1993, 8) It was during her healing process, in 1988, when Joanna Macy approached her with an invitation to be part of a new project she wa s developing. The group, Macy proposed, would bring together a number of individuals to study the “challenge of nuclear waste” ( Brown 1993, 8). Oser joined the group and would spend the next several years of her life working with them, going on to help form the Nuclear Guardianship Project and Nuclear Guardianship Forum. Despite her isolation in the aftermath of the illness she attributed to radiation poisoning, her involvement in the group would help Oser to once again develop a sense of community. In some ways, lessons from her childhood enabled her to move through her isolation and re engage. The theater work she participated in as a child enabled her to speak to others about her experience with nuclear radiation, despite her trauma. “I had to tell and retell the story of my own personal damage” Oser said, “which is how I became a student of the damage from radiation poisoning.” “I had to remind myself that this is not about me ,” Oser continued. Her spiritual work helped her “to let go of [her] ego and l et peace come through” knowing that her experiences might help others. The sentiments expressed to me in 2019 and 2020, mirror what Oser said about her radiation exposure in her 1993 interview with Brown: I had a profound direct experience of the inte rdependence of the body, the mind and the spirit. I emerged with a new level of respect for trusting one’s own system as the ultimate source of information about one’s self. In a similar way I have increasingly understood myself each of us – to be part of the larger whole, our Earth, our universe. Damage takes place to the whole system.My direct experience with radiation poisoning lead me to make a commitment to protect our descendants from such harm. Acting on this commitment has affected my li fe not only by what I do, but also by allowing me to feel in community with all life across time . (Brown 1993, 8)

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216 Despite the disintegrating effects nuclear radiation had in her life, Oser was able to overcome her isolation. In large part, she attributes that to the formation of the NGP and to the powerful work of Joanna Macy. A Vision at Greenham Common In Spring 1983, Macy went to Greenham Common, the Royal Air Force base in Berkshire, England, where a women’s peace camp had been established in 1981. O n the day of her visit, the scene, which she described in “Pigramage to Greenham Common”, was bleak: my visit to Greenham Common was on the day the police or bailiffs were attempting to evict the women. In a steady rain the bailiffs were dragging the wome n still sitting in the entry road. I watched as the uniformed and booted men trod on hands and breasts, set fire to tents and gear. I watched a child’s gas soaked doll explode into flames. Standing there in shock, I could hear the women, calling to each ot her over the heads of the men assaulting them. They were singing high, lovely calls, as if helping one another remember, and there was an unhurried patience to their resistance. It felt as if they would just keep on and never think about quitting, as if their steady commitment could outlast the killing power of the radioactive warheads they were blocking. (Macy 2020a ) That evening, after the bailiffs had gone, Macy was sqatting by the cooking fire when she had, what she referred to, as a “ vision.” “Through the smoke of the damp wood fire ,” Macy wrote, “I sawcooling towers of a nuclear station. And moving around them, I saw human silhouettes” (Macy 2020 a ). In 2021, s he told me that “nobody [at that time was] thinking about how, once we got over the fascinat ion and criminality of nuclear weapons making and nuclear energy production, there would be all of these radioactive sites” remaining, and no one was thinking about what to do with them. S he also said that she “knew instantlythat this was how future people would have to take care of one of these many thousands of places that would be pulsing with radioactive waste .” She wrote in 2020 that she “immediately understood it to be a guardian site” and knew that “for life to go on, this is what would heve to happen around our nuclear installations” (Macy 2020 a ). When we spoke in 2021, Macy told me that this was the first time

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217 she thought about the idea of nuclear guardianship, an idea which would later come to play a significant role in her life and anti nucl ear work. The Fire Group “I got an anonymous phone call” Macy said, as she narrated how the idea to form the Fire Group began. The call was from a “naval officer who had been involved in a hydrogen bomb test in the Pacific .” He told Macy, “if you are talki ng about despair, I want you to look at this .” Macy commented, “from that little beginning, that call, I began to see with new eyes that what we were doing with nuclear was going to be there forever. It was because of the longevity, because of how long the isotopes last – it was staggering .” Spurred by her intensifying concern about the longterm impacts of nuclear waste on future generations, Macy decided to form a group to study and propose methods for storing it that would protect and preserve the envir onment for future generations. Macy already had contacts in the nuclear sector and ventured to talk with scientists at Los Alamos about the plans for long term waste storage. What she found was that there were none. “Even those that were making the deep re positories were not making plans or seemed unable to think beyond, at most 100 years ,” she said. Macy believed that it was critically important to be able to explain to future humans what nuclear waste was, and how to store it. “We were dismissing the impl ications of our own creativity” she said, as she emphasized that no one was thinking adequately and long term enough about the implications of nuclear waste. “Instead, we were classifying everything. So that is what motivated me to start a study action gr oup in Berkley that we called the Fire Group .” Beginning in 1988, Macy brought ten people together with expertise in different areas and diverse backgrounds to meet in Berkeley, California (Nisker and Gates 2000, 295).

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218 The group, which met once or twice a month for two years, was comprised of individuals from a wide variety of backgrounds: they included “a nuclear engineer, a poet, an environmental lawyer, a cosmologist, a psychotherapist [and] some ordinary folks” (Nisker and Gates 2000, 295).12 In 2021, she added to this list, and said that there were also two scientists, “one trained to run a nuclear power plant and an astrophysicist .” Macy “wanted a gathering of people from all walks of life ,” she expressed, “because it is my conviction that since radio active contamination is everywhere now, it needs to be taught to everybody what it is, and how to protect yourself from it.” When I asked Oser and Macy whether they recalled the names of all the original participants of the NGP, neither were able to provid e a full list of members but those they did remember included Macy’s husband, Fran Underhill Macy, Linda Seeley (who is the subject of Chapter 8), Molly Young Brown, Susan Griffin (the well known radical feminist philosopher), Edward Fuller (nuclear engine er), Frances (Fizz) Harwood (cultural anthropologist), Brian Swimme (evolutionary cosmologist and founder of the Center for the Story of the Universe), and Kathleen Sullivan.13 Brown is now a facilitator of the Work and a teacher of ecopsychology. Griffin is known for her ecofeminist writings, poetry, and plays, which have drawn connections between ecological destruction, sexism, and racism. Her book, Woman and Nature: The Roaring Inside Her (1984 [1978]) is said to have been one catalyst of the ecofeminist movement in the United States. Sullivan was “an activistand still a college student when she joined” the group. She went on to write about nuclear guardianship in her doctoral dissertation on Rocky Flats and has 12 A simil ar list of participants was reiterated during one of my 2019 interviews with Oser. 13 Further research and interviews with Brown, Griffin, Harwood, and Sullivan could provide additional insight into the early beginnings of the NGP, and the role of women in the anti nuclear movement. Though it has been beyond the scope and focus of the current Chapter to include them, their voices and contributions are important and will be among those that I endeavor to draw attention to as I continue to develop my research beyond this project.

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219 since worked as the coordinator of Nuclear Weapons Education and Action Project of Educators for Social Responsibility in New York, an Education Consultant with United Nations Office for Disarmament Affairs, and currently serves as the Program Director for Hibakusha Stories in New York (see “Hibakusha Stories” n.d.). According to Macy, the group undertook scientific studies as well as “imaginative work [and]experiential exercisesor what we would call our ‘deep time work’.” We wo uld have to try to see with our moral imaginations, to imagine what men and women of the future would have to say or would wish that we might have done back in the 20th or 21st century with the “ poison fire ” . And that name, which has sense become used, cam e out of one of the role plays that we would [use] to actually enterwith our imaginationsthe persona of the future being or person. And so, that’s howmy obsession with nuclear waste begins, for me. The participants she chose, Macy said, were not experts on nuclear waste, because “it was important in this kind of workto use our ignorancethe ignorance of smart peopleso it could become clear what is the training that is required [for dealing with nuclear waste].” Each time the group met, Oser reca lled in 2013, “a member of the group would present a different perspective on nuclear waste which was either informational (scholarly) or experiential (from their own experiences) .” When we spoke in 2021, Macy set the scene for one activity the group did t ogether. Two of the members of the fire group , a couple, whose names she could not recall offhand, had a large canvas hung in their barn, on which t he y had traced out a map of the U.S. On this map, they placed a marker for each nuclear reactor, waste repositor y, and weapons facility in the country. Macy said that the group would play games on the canvas, and recalled that “it was so big, in our stocking feet, we could walk around on nuclear America .” She said that the whole point of the work was “to make it real” and that the game did that, by allowing them a way to “trace the paths of moving the ‘poison fire’ around” the country.

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220 Oser provided another example of the type of work that the Fire Group did when we spoke in 2021, called “The Standard Remembering.” The script ( see Figure 73) was “created spontaneously by Macy” during a session when the group was asked “to imagine experiencing in future time a pilgrimage to a nuclear guardianship site .” Oser said that she “still get[s] shivers reading it .” Later, Oser amassed a collection of images known in our time and shown as a slide show to go with the script. “The whole experience was very moving,” she said. “We distributed [the slideshow] widely to people in out cohort, who presented it to others. I probably presented it more than twenty times in the U.S. and Europe .” The group later tried to make the slideshow into a film but were stymied as to how to conclude it.

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221 Figure 73 : “ The Standard Remembering .”14 14 This image was provided by Oser in 2021, along with the following instructions for use: “Please print the attachment and fold it into quarters to be able to read it (slowly, out loud). ”

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222 The group also created a set of ethical principles that would serve as a “Guide to Decision Making on the Management of Radioactive Materials” (see “An Ethic of Nuclear Guardianship” 1994). Among the ethical principals proposed, the group called for a cessation in the production of nuclear technologies, development of renewable energy resources, and a commitment to help protect future generations from harmful side effects of radioactive waste (“An Ethic of Nuclear Guardianship” 1994). They created several versions of the ethics, eventually settling on one they thought would be lasting. Over the next few years, the Fire Group grew and expended, eventually developing into the Nuclear Guardianship Project. Although the beginnings of Macy’s action group may have been humble , it had important and lasting impacts in her life, as well as the lives of others. Reflecting on the group in 2019, Macy said: “though I haven’t been able to do as much on the nuclear scene at all as I might have been able to do if I was smarter, or healt hierI am so grateful for that because the gift it gave me is Deep Time. So , I credit the gift of Deep Time to the nuclear waste issue.” The Fire Group also had an important impact in Oser’s life, as did Macy herself. Reflecting on her decision to join th e Fire Group at Macy’s invitation, Oser said that “being part of a group that recognized the suffering (both personal and across all future time), getting knowledge of the reality of the effects of radiation, and dedicating myself to nuclear guardianship, were integral to my healing” (Brown 1993 , 8). When she was invited to join the group, Oser asked Macy why she had been chosen, and noted that everyone else was more well educated and successful. “Because you know ,” Joanna responded, underscoring the import ance of Oser’s own story about her experience with nuclear waste. Oser emphasized her admiration

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223 and respect for Macy in that moment, and said that anything Macy asked, she wanted to do, which is why she joined the group. With sadness in her voice, Oser r ecalled, “Joanna was the first person who took seriously and could understand that I had been damaged by Chernobyl .” When I asked her to elaborate on how it felt to finally have someone take seriously and validate her experience after all that time, Oser r esponded: “it was like when a mother holds a child and tells them ‘let me kiss it better’ and says, ‘oh that hurts doesn’t it’ and rocks you. It was like being loved by the mother .” Toward the ‘Responsible Care of Radioactive Materials’: The Nuclear Guard ianship Project The Nuclear Guardianship Project (NGP), “a citizen’s educational effort aimed at developing the political, technical and moral understandings for the responsible care of radioactive materials” grew out of the Fire Group in the early 1990s (“Nuclear Guardianship Forum” n.d.). As Kenneth Kraft eloquently put it in 1994, nuclear guardianship “begins with the premise that current technological expertise does not offer a certifiably safe method for the disposal of nuclear waste” ( Kraft 1994, 172) . The NGP developed, Oser said, after the creation of the ethical principles, and facilitated by the group’s query “how do we get the question of ‘what do we do with the radioactive “stuff ,” made in our name and our time?’, out into the world .” The group decided to publish a news print magazine which came to be known as the Nuclear Guardianship Forum (NGF) and aimed to “provid[e] opportunities for ongoing, indepth discussion among citizens, specialists, and policy makers” (see Nuclear Guardianship Forum 1992, 1993, 1994). The NGF was published in three issues, once per year between 1992 and 1994. Included therein were a number of scholarly articles, interviews, and perspectives written or translated by

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224 members of NGP.15 Oser played a vital role in the publication of the NGF. “I said I would see to it that we got it published ,” she recalled. Acting as editor and layout director, Oser made a mailing list of 7,000 highly influential people and mailed the newsletter out around th e world. The mailing list: included religious leaders (like the Pope), heads of states, activists, nuclear physicists including every university I could get hold ofthat had nuclear energy departments and the head of every department there. Ifigured tha t even if it just sits on somebody’s desk, maybe [someone] will see it and say, “ what is this thing called nuclear guardianship? You know, I’ve never heard that phrase before.” And maybe they would at least read the title and think about something. Or maybe they would open it. Despite the inability to learn the actual reach of the newsletter, Oser knew the importance of spreading the word, and took it on faith that her work might have an impact and might help further the cause. NGP also held workshops, such as the multi day retreat in Mendocino, California that Kenneth Kraft documented in 1994, which boasted 75 participants (Kraft 1994, 173). The goal of these workshops, as Macy explained in her interview with Alan AtKisson in 1991, was to teach Guardians hip Training and facilitate the creation of Guardian Sites – sites of nuclear contamination converted to “places of contemplation and pilgrimage” (Macy 1991a). The Guardianship Training aimed to teach individuals about the principles of Guardianship and en able them to their own Guardian groups. “The idea ,” Macy expressed, “is to keep the waste where it is. The ground underneath is already contaminated. Transportation is too dangerous. This means that local citizens should participate in making the decisions about nuclear waste and overseeing its safeguarding” (Macy 1991a). Guardianship training had three components, as 15 Selections from NGF can be found in two arc hives online, “Nuclear Guardianship Forum” ( n.d. ) and “The Nuclear Guardianship Library” ( n.d. ).

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225 Macy envisioned it. First, participants learned the technical aspects associated with nuclear waste storage, in order to “demystify” the pro cess; second, they learned about the political aspects of nuclear waste, including who the decision makers are in nuclear waste policies; and finally, they learned the “spiritual or moral strand” in order to “find the deep roots of [their] motivation” and to develop “values that are life sustaining” (Macy 1991a). “ Guardianship is, and has to be, a spiritual vocation ,” Macy said in her interview with AtKisson (Macy 1991a). “Guardianship must survive many changes and upheavals in political and economic and cultural systems. So we need low tech, enduring ways by which people can be faithful in guarding the poison fire. And the sooner we start, the better” (Macy 1991a). Little scholarly work has been done on the NGP . Kenneth Kraft is among the few who have discussed the NGP at length, noting specifically the role of religion in the formation and principles of the organization. He argued in “The Greening of Buddhist Practice” that the NGP can be understood as one form of environmental engagement that is “Buddhist inspired” (Kraft 1994, 172). “Advocated most forcefully by Joanna Macy,” the idea of nuclear guardianship, Kraft explained “argue[d] that nuclear waste should be stored in an accessible manner using the best available technology, monitored with great care, and recontained [sic] in new ways as technology advances” ( Kraft 1994, 172). Kraft highlighted the religious dimensions of the group from the time Macy first envisioned it, and noted that the NGP believed, “i f we are to succeed in protecting future generations from lethal radioactivitypeople must also be inspired mythically and spiritually” ( Kraft 1994, 172). Kraft wrote that Macy suggested: that surveillance communities built around today's nuclear facilities could also become centers for various activities beyond the technical process of containment: pilgrimage, meditation retreats, rituals ‘of acceptance and forgiveness,” even a kind of monastic training . ( Kraft 1994, 173; see also Macy 1992 , 3)

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226 Moreover, Kraft showed how elements of Buddhist practice influenced NGP meetings and events. “Macy and others are experimenting with ritual forms to be used in study groups and public workshops” he wrote, “and are even willing to modify the traditional four vows ta ken by Mahayana Buddhists, by adding a fifth vow ‘The Poison Fire lasts forever; I'll do the best I can to contain it’” (See “Buddhist Vows for Guardianship” 1992; quoted in Kraft 1994 , 173) In addition to the deep time perspective, NGP also advanced a nonanthropocentric understanding of care and concern for all beings, past, present, and future. By directing attention to the distant future, Macy invites us to “ reinhabit ” a deep mythological sense of timeIn a similar manner, the NGP calls for a dramatic extension of our sense of ethical responsibility. The notion of guardianship begins with plutonium but goes on to embrace numberless unborn beings and the planet as a whole. (Kraft 1994, 17475) By framing the nuclear issue within the larger context of deep t ime, the group promotes a holistic worldview which takes seriously the evolutionary trajectory of all life on earth. Writing in 1994, Kraft deemed the NGP “difficult to assess” because i t had “not yet made inroads among nuclear engineers [nor had it] been tested in the public domain” ( Kraft 1994, 174). Kraft also stated: To some observers [NGP] seems wildly fanciful, because it expects to transform deep seated psychological responses to nuclear waste: denial of responsibility ( “ not in my backyard” ) and denial of danger ( “ it's not making us sick ” ). The NGP must contend with lingering disagreement among scientists on technical issues, and it must deal with the economic realities of implemen ting accessible containment on a massive scale. However, the greatest source of resistance may be our apparent unwillingness to reduce our material standard of living voluntarily. The best way to limit future nuclear waste is simply to stop producing it, b ut that course would call for radical social changes that few citizens anywhere are willing to contemplate. It is one thing to recognize the risks of nuclear energy, but quite another to change the systems and personal habits that currently demand it. ( Kra ft 1994, 174)

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227 Kraft’s words ring true still today, despite the efforts of NGP. Although their intentions were promising, the group garnered little support from outside the grassroots community and failed to maintain the momentum needed to succeed. Eventually, having revised the ethics multiple times, the NGP disbanded in 1994. As Oser said in 2013, “we had no way of knowing the influence we had and we had no next step.” In 2019, she added to that statement: As the years progressed it also became more comm on knowledge in the scientific community that we didn’t know what to do with [the waste]. That there was no permanent fix. That it was dangerous to move it. So, we felt that we had published it; it was in the public domain. And that was the end of that. T he Legacy of Nuclear Guardianship Despite their termination, NGP’s work did have a lasting impact, and would inform a variety of other guardianship inspired work, including guardianship groups and spiritual practices. In 1989, Oser collaboratively develope d, produced, and presented Nuclear Guardianship Site, 2190, an: inspiring, one hour multi media presentation enactment with slides and music, which takes place at a nucler guardianship site in an imagined future in which we protect the biosphere from the “ poison fire ” of nuclear waste from the 20th century, remembering with gratitude those ancestors who created the sites, making life possible for these future generations.16 In 1996, Oser went on to coauthor a paper entitled “The Guardianship Ethic in Response to Radioactive Pollution: A Meta Model for a Sustainable World ” (Oser and Brown 1996). In terms of guardianship inspired work, NGP member, Kathleen Sullivan, carried the guardianshi p ethics into her dissertation work. Now as a Ph.D. and the director of Hibakusha 16 The presentation is not available online.

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228 Stories in New York City, Sullivan teaches guardianship ethics to youth in the hopes of inspiring them to build peaceful and sustainable futures (see “Nuclear Guardianship” n .d.). In 2017, the grassroots organization, as a member of the International Campaign to Abolish Nuclear Weapons (ICAN) (see “I nternational Campaign to Abolish Nuclear Weapons ” n.d.), was recognized as a recipient of the Nobel Peace Prize (“ICAN Wins 2017 Nobel Peace Prize” n.d). Moreover, in 2015, Naropa University in Boulder, Colorado launched the Joanna Macy Center “to hold and develop the vision and legacy of Dr. Joanna Macy’s work” in Nuclear Guardianship, as well as in The Work that Reconnects and B uddhist Scholarship (“Naropa University Launches Joanna Macy Center” 2015). The center aims to continue her legacy and vision of guardianship by training students to become Nuclear Guardians. Nuclear Guardianship groups focused on specific contaminated nuclear sites, have also developed. The Rocky Flats Nuclear Guardianship project was initiated in 2011 to facilitate guardianship of the plutonium contaminated Rocky Flats nuclear weapons plant outside of Denver, Colorado. On their website, they credited Mac y with the “pioneering work” of Nuclear Guardianship, and have revised and updated the NGP’s Guardianship Ethics, originally written in 1990. Importantly, the site also affirms that “Nuclear Guardianship links people: guided by scientific curiosity and op enness coupled with spiritual commitmentit establishes a model for perpetual ecological stewardship and environmental democracy” (“Rocky Flats Nuclear Guardianship” 2015). In 2012, Laura Feldman also proposed the creation of a guardianship project at the decommissioned Hanford Nuclear Site in Washington and called for: A university community service learning partnership that educates and activates communities in the Columbia River watershed to learn about the Hanford Nuclear Reservation and its impact on t he bioregion, by committing to past, present and future generations, remediation and guardianship of the wastes stored there . (Feldman 2012)

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229 Though nothing has yet come of the proposal, and no guardianship group has been established in Hanford, the propos al, made some twenty two years after the creation of the NGP’s Guardianship Ethics, represents the lasting impact that Macy , Oser, and the rest of the NGP have had on the conversation concerning what we should do with nuclear waste. Guardianship inspired spiritual practices have also developed in the wake of the NGP. Inspired by the work of Macy and a meeting in 1990 with the then 106year old Tibetan Lama Charock Rinpoche, Cynthia Jurs founded the Earth Treasure Vase Project. Based on an ancient Tibetan tradition, Earth Treasure Vases (ETVs), hand made clay pots filled with treasured objects, were “planted” in meaningful locations to create a “sustained, harmonic environment grid that pervaded the surrounding area” and “to bring protection to the Earth and to all beings in the area where it is buried” (“Earth Treasure Vase Global Healing Project” n.d.). ETVs are treated as “sacred, living beings,” and the filling and burial of each ETV is a ritual process (“Earth Treasure Vase Global Healing Project” n.d.) . Over a twentyyear period between 1993 and 2013, the group placed 29 ETVs at meaningful sites around the world in an ETV mandala, beginning with a cave above Los Alamos National Laboratory which served as the center of the mandala. Though not all locations of ETVs were nuclear sites, many were, including a vase buried in Hiroshima, Japan and one buried at the Tritium Lab in Berkeley, C alifornia by a group led by Macy. 17 Beyond the continuing impact NGP had on other Guardianship related practices, NGP a lso had a lasting personal impact, especially for Oser. After the culmination of the project, Oser 17 For more information about Jurs ’ work, the spiritual history of the project, the location of ETVs, and a video with Macy talking about the placement of the ETV in Berkeley, see “Earth Treasure Vase Global Healing Project” ( n.d. ) .

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230 said, “I didn’t see Joanna a lot after that .” But though their lives moved in different directions, Oser explained that there would always be a deep and abid ing connection between them. Twenty years later, when my next husband [Dan] died [in 2015], [Joanna] was one of the first people to come over and sit with me. I ran into her just the other dayand we hugged like old friends who will love each other foreve r. And that is a special kind of – even though I do not call on her, and she does not call on meand we are not doing a common project – that feeling will never go away. We know we are in the same cohort forever. For the Future Beings The Integrative Power of Women’s Anti Nuclear Work Reading Kaza’s book, I was struck by the sheer number of contributors who spoke to the ways that Macy touched and influenced the lives of others. Among them, David Abram, an ecologist and philosopher, as well as a popula r author within green countercultures who promoted an animistic worldview, may have captured it best: By offering herself so unconditionally to each locale and situation wherein she finds herself, Joanna’s life radiates out to touch and enliven every cell within our larger, spherical Body. By giving herself with such abandon to the very presence of the present moment, Joanna’s tears and her joy – like those of any genuine bodhisattva – reverberate backward and forward through time to nourish all moments within the broad life of the breathing Earth. (Abram 2020, xvi xvii) Macy’s work has been, in a word, integrative. Like numerous others, I experienced first hand her unique capacity to bring people together in meaningful connection. During our conversations in the early stages of this project, Macy graciously connected me with Wendy Oser (first in 2013, and then again in 2019), Mary Olson, and Linda Seeley. Their stories, along with Macy’s, fill many of these pages – without them, this project would not be the same, and for that I am eternally grateful. More than that however, I am grateful for these connections because of the relationships that I have developed with these women, the stories, laughs, and tears I have shared with them, and the lessons I have le arned from them.

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231 In our interviews, Oser also spoke to the integrative power of Macy’s work, and importantly linked the idea of nonhierarchical engagement Macy fostered to a feminist worldview. “My strongest experience with that is with Joanna ,” Oser sa id. Joanna Macy is that kind of leader. Nonhierarchical. Now, she has a lot of clout because she is so wise, and such a good soul, but she never cared to be the top of an organization. She always brought forth other people who had unique contributions to give. Elaborating on the work that they did, and the structure of the Fire Group and the Nuclear Guardianship Forum, Oser said: When [the Fire] Group formed, we were just coming out of a period where there were a lot of arrests andantinuclear demonstrations, many people going to prison. The way we organized the activism was through the image of doing the work in a circle rather than facing a leader. Affinity groups. They wouldn’t be too big, maybe twenty people so that everyone could be heard, and decisions made collectively. The affinity group model was a “feminist model ,” Oser said, which fostered a way “to organize and be respectful to everybody’s contribution, and everybody’s wellbeing, and everybody’s creativity .” In resp ect to the global environmental crisis, Oser also sees the way forward as one where women play a prominent role. “I see that there has to be a profound shift in personal values that has to be supported by community, by women, by feminists, how we raise our children. I am most inspired by the children ,” she said. Of her experience working with Macy, Oser said “I follow her path, and I am extremely proud of having spent that time with her .” In 2021, Wendy Oser was 81 and no longer active in the anti nuclea r movement. But since her time in the NGP, she has continued to be an “activist in her heart,” and in practice. In 1994, Oser became the Database Manager for INOCHI , an “international environmental, educational and peace organization with focal points in California, Japan, and the Pacific

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232 Islands ,” a position which she held until 1996 (see INOCHI 2016). Oser co authored the Safe Energy Handbook18, originally publishe d by INOCHI in 1997, and, i n 1998, she became a member of the INOCHI Board of Directors, a position that she continued to hold in 2021. From 1996 to 1999 she worked as the Project Directo r for the “Safe Energy Book Project ,” a book which was completed and distributed at the Women’s International Conference in Beijing, China in 1999. As part of this project, Oser helped to arrange for publication of the book in twelve languages and coordinated distribution in Asia , Eastern and Western Europe, and the Middle East. In 1999, she also became the Developer of Website Content for “Plutonium Free Future” (see “Plutonium Free Future” 2016), an organization under INOCHI and for the Nuclear Guardianship Project. When we spoke in 2020, she told me that she had recently “become inspired again,” and is actively working to “change the practices” of the assisted living facility she now calls home, in order to procure organic food for the residents. In 2021 Joanna Macy was 91 years old. Although she admits to having slowed down a bit, she still actively works to protect and preserve the planet from nuclear waste for all future beings. Her Work That Reconnects is being shared by facilitators around the world, passing on her warnings of the dangers of nuclear waste and climate change, as well as the enduring legacy of the positive and integrative power of grief work. As Macy eloquently put it: Just as grief work is a process by which bereaved persons unblock their numbed energies by acknowledging and grieving the loss of a loved one, so do we all need to unblock our feelings about our threatened planet and the possible demise of our species. Until we do, our power of creative response will be crippled . ( Macy 2020c , 74) 18 For the updated, 20th Anniversary Edition, see Greensf elder and Thomas (2015).

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233 CHAPTER 8 “REARRANGING CHAIRS ON THE TITANIC” : ON LINDA SEELEY AND NUCLEAR POWER Figure 81: A Portrait of Linda Seeley representing Mothers for Peace’s work in opposition to all war.1 During an interview with Linda Seeley in 2020, her partner, David, chimed up in the background: “I have said it many times. The real story here is not Diablo Canyon. It’s about the Mothers and what brought them together to pursue this quest about nuclear energy.” 2 Originally founded in 1969, San Luis Obispo Mothers for Peace became active in the anti nuclear movemen t in 1973 when they learned of plans to build a nuclear power plant in their hometown, San Luis Obispo, California. The Mothers shared a common sense of dis ease about the construction and operation of a nuclear plant and were primarily concerned with the safety risks such a plant might pose to their families. Although she came to the organization more than 1 Image provided by Linda Seeley. 2 All quotations in this Chapter that are not cited from published sources are from author interviews with Linda Seeley that were conducted by telephone on September 16, 2019, September 23, 2019, October 18, 2019, December 18, 2020 and by a Zoom meeting with Linda Seeley, Sandy Silver, and Jane Swanson on 22 January 2021.

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234 a decade after it was founded, Linda Seeley shared the Mothers’ concerns, and became involved in the legal interventions the organization leveled agains t the power company and the Nuclear Regulatory Commission (NRC) . But Seeley’s involvement in the organization was also influenced by a broader sense of dis ease informed by her previous experiences, professional career, and religious worldview. As an ant i Vietnam War protester in the late 1960s and early 1970s, Seeley had experienced first hand the risks of political resistance. However, this did not dissuade her from becoming actively involved in anti nuclear protests beginning in the 1980s. Her education in the women’s movement and career as a midwife also empowered Seeley to become an outspoken advocate for women , including women of color . Moreover, her religious worldview, which is deeply informed by her childhood experiences in, and understanding of, the nonhuman natural world, contributed to her anti nuclear activism and her environmental work. During her time with Mothers for Peace, Seeley played a critical role in the organization and their ongoing fight against the operation of Diablo Canyon Nucle ar Power Plant. As of 2021, she continued to serve on the board and as an official spokesperson for the organization. Seeley has also been appointed to the Diablo Canyon Decommissioning Engagement Panel. For Seeley, dis ease has not only been a motivating factor in her antinuclear work, but has informed her concerns about the politics of nuclear power and the dangers it poses to current and future generations. Moreover, a growing sense of dis ease about anthropogenic climate change and the longterm risk s to the health of the planet and its diverse organisms continues to inform her ongoing anti nuclear work, as well as environmental work she is engaged in. Seeley’s Early Life – Searching for Transcendence Linda McNeal Seeley was born on 26 May 1944 in Cleveland, Ohio, the daughter of Doris and Frank Seeley. She lived a sheltered childhood, raised in a small, midwestern town of

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235 only 600 residents where her father was the mayor. Seeley recalled that she and her three siblings grew up spending most of their time outdoors, playing in the forest and swimming in the creeks and quarry near their home. “I was kind of a feral child ,” she remarked. Frank worked as a salesman for R. J. Reynolds Tobacco Company and Dori s was a social worker. In addition to their careers, Frank and Doris maintained a large garden on their property and the children learned to work the garden from a young age. Seeley remembered learning to pick beetles off the plants around age four under t he careful direction of her father and learning additional skills such as hoeing and picking weeds as she got older. Though her parents were agnostic, they deemed it important that the children receive a religious education. Seeley and her siblings were “forced to go to the Methodist church” every week. “I never liked it ,” she said. I couldn’t swallow what I considered to be the logical impossibility – the ridiculousness of wrapping your hopes and dreams around finding happiness after you’re deadeveryt hing will be better after I am dead. I will go to heaven. And then I couldn’t wrap my head around basing a religion on somebody getting murdered and then that person coming back to life. It just never made any sense to me. In 2021, Seeley clarified her view that “heaven, to me, is right here on Earth. I can experience it each and every day in many ways .” Despite her incredulity about the theological tenets of Methodism, Seeley did speak to some positive aspects of her early religious experiences there, i ncluding the strong sense of social responsibility that she learned, which she said has remained with her since. Around the age of twelve, Seeley began attending the Catholic church with a close friend, and though she never became a Catholic, she identifie d with what she called the “mystical element” of the religion, something she linked to the burning of incense and the recitation of prayers in Latin. “I always had this drive, this yearning for something more. For something bigger than myself ,” she said.

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236 Seeley found that desire fulfilled in nature. She spoke to an early childhood memory, in which she recalled feeling, for the first time, a “sense of transcendence.” I was around nine and I was up in this field where we weren’t supposed to go, but I went there all by myself and I was lying in the grass. There were tall weeds and I was way down in the grass which was way taller than I was and all I could see were the clouds and the little bugs hopping all over the placeand I just felt like I was part o f the earth. Like there was no difference between me and the earth I was lying on. And that was a huge experience for me. I melted – myself melted away and I was just there. Having had that experience in nature, Seeley said she sought to experience it again in the place where she believed it was supposed to happen: the church in worship. “It never actually did happen there ,” she lamented. In 1962, Seeley began college at American University in Washington, D.C. She remembered it as an “eyeopening” experi ence because it was her first exposure to cultures different from her own. Driven to learn as much as she could, she made a list of all the embassies in the city and began to visit them, checking them off one by one. She gathered information about various countries, and in the process learned that there were different religious worldviews to explore as well. She sought experiences with a number of religious traditions and philosophies including Hinduism, Zen Buddhism, and Objectivism.3 In addition to br oadening her religious worldview while at American University, Seeley also developed a broader understanding of environmental injustice. It was there that Seeley first encountered Rachel Carson’s Silent Spring, shortly after its publication in 1962. Reading it was an event which had a lasting impact on her life. It shocked me awake, I guess. Because I had had such a supportive, kind, loving relationship with the world around me andhad been completely unaware that nature was being threatened by our agricultural industrial corporations. I had no 3 Objectivism is a philosophical worldview envisioned and developed by writer Ayn Rand and later expanded by philosopher Leonard Peikoff.

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237 idea that there was such a thing as DDTand it made me angry!... It was horrifying to me. Seeley further recalled that reading Silent Spring awakened her to corporate nihilism and that she “suddenly understood that corporations (especially, in this case, chemical corporations) existed solely for the purpose of making a profit and not for the benefit of the world AT ALL!” [her emphasis]. Though she had always had an inc lination toward environmentalism, informed by her childhood feelings of being deeply connected to the natural world, Seeley pointed to this moment as pivotal in shaping her environmental proclivities and activism. The early lessons Seeley learned have not only informed her religious worldview but have contributed to the work and activism she has done throughout her life. Much of her work has been devoted to helping and empowering people, especially women, and to protecting the planet, including its future generations. Political Radicalization In 1964, Seeley left American University after her grades declined and she lost her scholarship. She returned to her hometown in Ohio and quickly met her future husband, Bob Seeley. After a very short courtship, they m arried and moved to New York City where they lived for almost two years before moving back to Ohio to return to their educations. While in New York, she and her husband spent a lot of their time listening to live jazz, studying Macrobiotics, and befriending artists, writers, and musicians. They lived in a 5th floor 1 room walkup brown on West 22nd Street between 9th and 10th Avenues. Bob worked at a bank in the travelers’ check department, and Seeley worked at the Deafness Research Foundation, a nonprofit l ocated on Madison Avenue, as a receptionist and “go fer.” When she returned to the Midwest, Seeley enrolled in Kent State University. She graduated in 1967, and had her daughter, Julia, later that

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238 year on 21 August. Her husband had become devoted to the Socialist Workers Party, and though she was not particularly interested in political theory, she heartily embraced the tenets of Karl Marx: “From each according to his ability; to each according to his need .” By that time, Seeley had also become “politicall y radicalized” and was active in the anti Vietnam War movement in Kent, where there was a strong Students for a Democratic Society (SDS) movement. In January 1968 she took the bus from her home in Ohio to attend the Jeannette Rankin Brigade March in Washin gton, D.C., a women’s march protesting the war. It was a wonderful experience for me as a young woman. Especially being with the older women. It really helped to hear older women talk about their reasons for opposing war. A lot of them were mothers. I he ard the call, “Sisterhood is Powerful!” and it sunk into my bones. In March 1968 her husband moved to Boston to work with the Socialist Workers Party: Seeley remained in Ohio. As a young, single mother, Seeley was intimately concerned with protecting her daughter and providing the best possible life for her. That motivation, coupled with her sense of social justice, drove Seeley to be more involved in the anti war movement. She participated in protests, marches, sit ins, and teach ins in Akron and Kent, O hio during the late 1960s. In 1968, Seeley also began working for The Greater Akron Intergroup Ministry. The Ministry was formed as a direct result of the escalation of racial tensions after the assassination of Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr., on 4 April 1968. Church leaders wanted to address those rising tensions and build “friendships, alliances, and connections” among members of the faith community. The organization, Seeley said, was run by two ministers, Reverend Howard Washington of the Mt. Olive Baptis t Church, Reverend James Klink of the United Methodist Church, and herself, as the Educational Coordinator. Together, the three of them used Encounter Groups, a form of consciousness raising which developed in the United States during the late 1960s, to en courage high school age students and pastors of different denominations to overcome

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239 their racism and to understand their ethnic and cultural difference. Seeley spoke to the “challenging and heartfelt work” that transpired there and remembered it as “a wond erful job .” Dis ease and Patchwork Memories Seeley was still working at the Ministry in April of 1970 when President Richard Nixon ordered American ground troops to invade Cambodia, a neutral country in the Vietnam conflict, without the consent of Congress. Though Nixon had pledged de escalation and an end to U.S. involvement in the war in 1968 through the Vietnamization policy, in March 1969 he approved “Operation Menu ,” a series of secret bombings carried out on “suspected communist base camps and supply zones” in Cambodia (Rotondi 2020). News of the 28 April 1970 attack was not released to the public until two days later, on Thursday, 30 April. There was international public backlash to the escalation of the war and the announcement triggered riot ing and protests around the U.S. the following day, including on the campus of Kent State University in Ohio. “Everybody went completely insane ,” Seeley recalled. “On May 1st, the evening we learned about the bombing of Cambodia, people ran into the street s yelling and screaming. They set fires in the street, smashed windows in a police car, and broke storefront windows. The police used tear gas to disperse the crowd.” On 2 May , Governor James Rhodes mobilized the Ohio National Guard. By the time the guard arrived at Kent State, protesters had set fire to the Reserve Officer Training Core (ROTC) building on campus and prevented fire fighters access to extinguish the building (Lewis and Hensley 1998). The National Guard used tear gas to break up the protests and several people were arrested. By Sunday, there were nearly 1000 National Guard members on campus (Lewis and Hensley 1998). In “The May 4 Shootings at Kent State University: The Search for Historical Accuracy ,” Lewis and Hensley wrote that the Governor held a press conference in which he “issued a provocative statement calling campus protesters the worst type of people in America

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240 and stat[ed] that every force of law would be used to deal with them” (Lewis and Hensley 1998). Moreover, Rhodes suggested th at he would declare a state of emergency, ban all rallies, and implement martial law in the city (Lewis and Hensley 1998). “This was never done” but it remained a “widespread assumption among both Guard and University Officials” (Lewis and Hensely 1998). The understanding that Martial Law had been declared was also widespread among protesters and has remained a point of ambiguity in the historical records. Seeley’s own memory of the events exemplifies this: she told me in 2020 that “they had declared marti al law and groups were not allowed to gather .” That weekend, many protests happened spontaneously around the city despite the widelybelieved in sanction. In addition to those spontaneous protests, some individuals came together and organized a “response group” to address the National Guards’ occupation. The main goal of this response group, Seeley said, was to figure out “how to get the national guard off campus .” They met and organized a “peaceful protest for Monday, May 4th at noon at the bell on campus” – a protest that Seeley believed was “in violation of the order for groups not to congregate .” 4 We were idealistic and furious at our government for murdering so many North and South Vietnamese people, and when we learned that our government was kill ing Cambodians too, we could not take it. That, coupled with our own government’s repression of free speech and the right to assemble peacefully, led us to use our organizing skills, the only tools we had to address our grievances. Seeley’s home, which was located outside of the city, was used as the meeting place for the response group. She conveyed to me that, because she was working at the time, she was not always present, though her house was used for a lot of meetings. We didn’t know it at the time , but [the FBI] w as filming it, taking photos of everyone that went in and out of the house. The FBI was really after this one guy who was a real ringleader. I was more of a – you know, I made my house 4 For more historical information about the protest on Friday, 1 May 1970, reasons for the presence of the national guard, and the build up to the Monday, 4 May 1970 protest, see Lewis and Hensley (1998).

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241 available, I was a support person. The anti war movem ent was completely dominated by men. The women took care of the copying, the notetaking, the coffee makingthey made it all happen. So that is what I was doing. The person that Seeley referenced as the “ringleader” was Howie Emmer, a well known member of Kent State’s SDS who, along with several other highprofile protesters had been arrested and jailed for six months the previous year on charges of inciting a riot during an anti war protest (MacArthur 2020). Between Friday and Sunday Emmer and other highprofile protesters kept a low profile in order to not attract attention from the authorities. There has been much speculation about the degree of their involvement in facilitating protests over the weekend, and questions about whether or not they were involved in planning the 4 May protest. And though most of the histories record “student protest leaders” as the inciters of the 4 May protest, the well known leaders were never directly linked to its organization. Seeley confirmed that at least some of those high profile protesters were present in her home for the response group and aided in the organization of the protest that took place on 4 May 1970. She asked me not to reveal them by name and proceeded to tell me her reasons why she asked me not to do so: because I’ve lost track of most of the people, I don’t want to invade their privacy, and I can’t make any assumptions about their willingness to reveal their involvement in the protests. Many of them settled into quiet lives and I’m assuming they don’t w ant to be reminded of those days. I do think that guilt, trauma, and anger must be a mixed bag of feelings for them, as they are for me. On Monday 4 May, over three thousand people gathered on the Commons of Kent State University for a peaceful protest , “ primarily protesting the presence of the Guard on campus, although a strong anti war sentiment was also present” (Lewis and Hensley 1998) . There were approximately 500 core demonstrators, while the additional people were “cheerleaders” and “observers” ( Lewis and Hensley 1998). Shortly before noon, when the protest was scheduled to officially begin, the National Guards’ commanding officer, General Robert Canterbury

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242 demanded that protesters disperse (Lewis and Hensley 1998). When they refused to comply wit h the order, Canterbury “ordered his men to lock and load their weapons, tear gas cannisters were fired into the crowd around the Victory Bell, and the Guard began to march across the Commons” (Lewis and Hensley 1998). The students moved across Blanket Hi ll and into Prentice Hall parking lot, pursued by the National Guard. Lewis and Hensley documented the infamous event as follows: Most of the G uardsmen followed the students directly and soon found themselves somewhat trapped on the practice football field because it was surrounded by a fence. Yelling and rock throwing reached a peak as the Guard remained on the field for about 10 minutes. Sever al Guardsmen could be seen huddling together, and some Guardsmen knelt and pointed their guns, but no weapons were shot at this time. The Guard then began retracing their steps from the practice football field back up Blanket Hill. As they arrived at the top of the hill, 28 of the more than 70 Guardsmen turned suddenly and fired their rifles and pistols. Many guardsmen fired into the air or the ground. However, a small portion fired directly into the crowd. Altogether between 61 and 67 shots were fired in a 13second period. (Lewis and Hensley 1998) Four students were killed, and nine others wounded. Sandra Scheuer and William Schroder, two of the students killed, were bystanders who had not been actively involved in the protest. Seeley was on campus that day, though she had not gone specifically with the intention of being involved in the protest. She was there to look for one of the highprofile protesters to warn him to get out of town because she had been told that there was a warrant out for his arre st. She never found him. In our interview, Seeley re lived her experience from that day. When the National Guard began lobbing tear gas at the protesters, Seeley said she ran, alongside hundreds of others. Suddenly I heard what sounded like firecrackers. It did not occur to me that what they were doing was shooting a gun, or guns. But then I heard people screaming and I stopped and turned around and there was this guy who was dead, and I could tell it because he was in a huge pool of blood, he was very fla t, and he was right there close to me, and I think I went into shock.

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243 Elaborating on what she remembered feeling that day, Seeley continued: I felt like it wasn’t reallike I was in a movie or something. There were these ambulances, four I think just across the field that belonged to the National Guard. There were at least eleven people dead or injured and lying on the ground and the National Guard refused to let the ambulances come over. That sent me into a feeling of sheer rage. There is a guy lying on the ground, bleeding, and there are some people attending to him. Maybe like ten people held hands and made a barrier around him. It was like a feeling of at least there is something that I can do to help in some way. I couldn’t imagine walking away from there. I couldn’t imagine going or being anywhere else. I didn’t want to leave. I felt a huge bond with everyone that was there and who had had the same experience. I still feel it. Along with a number of other people, Seeley helped to form a ring around Dean Kahler, a freshman at Kent State who was left paralyzed when he was shot in the back during the protest. They had to wait for at least forty five minutes for medical assistance to arrive. “I heard not long ago that Allison Krause was not dead when she was hit and that she bled to death lying there. It breaks my heart to think about it,” Seeley said. After the protest ended, a large group of people, including Seeley, decided that they should remain on campus and form an encampment to occupy the space until the National Guard left campus. Seeley stayed there as others left to gather supplies including tents and blankets. A professor, Glenn Frank, who was running interference communicated that the National Guard demanded the group disperse under threat of resuming firing. Seeley remembers saying, “Go ahead. Shoot us all .” But then, as Dr. Frank moved back and forth between the National Guard and the protesters, he became desperate. “He begged us to leave. He said, ‘They WILL kill all of you, and your blood is too precious’ .” Seeley and the others finally relented: she piled as many people into her Volkswagen as she could, and they left campus (Seeley 2019a). “Looking back, I think that the only way to respond to the occupation of a public coll ege campus by National

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244 Guard was to have demonstrations . Little did we ever imagine that they would murder us in cold blood.” In our interviews, it was apparent that Seeley still had strong feelings and a deep emotional response to the events of that day. When I asked her to reflect on those in 2021, Seeley emphasized: The guilt I feel is “survivor’s guilt,” not guilt over the use of my rights as a citizen. The trauma I feel is from witnessing cold blooded murder that was never brought to justice. The ange r I feel stems from being betrayed by the government I was taught to love and respect. And I still carry grief for all of us, but mostly, of course, for those four souls who were taken from their lives so unceremoniously and with such savagery on a warm Sp ring day. Seeley was then only twentysix years old, and noted: That was a huge thing for me to witness people being murdered in front of my eyes. It turned me away from the mainstream and I really went deeply into the alternative culture with my daughte r. I left Kent because I thought there might be a warrant out for me. I didn’t want to go to jail and have my daughter be left to be put in an orphanage or whatever. So, I organized with other people to get out of town, and I quit my job that day, aband oned my apartment, and left. The Kent State Massacre, as it was later dubbed by the media, left Seeley with an overwhelming sense of disease. Along with a group of seven other people, Seeley fled to the west coast to “start a new life in California .” Alo ng the way, they camped for weeks at a time in campgrounds, stayed in a commune in San Francisco, and lived in community housing in Berkeley where there was profuse drug activity. “As I look back,” Seeley said in 2019, “I think it was very formative for me to do that. To spend so much time outside and next to rivers and looking at the stars in the quietthere was no distraction .” While they were on the run, Seeley got together with another member of the group that had fled Kent after the massacre. Though she was “not in love with him” Seeley was concerned about providing a normal life for her daughter and they decided that the best option was to get

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245 married and head back east to settle down and provide Julia with a stable home. By the time they arrived in Minnesota in September of 1970, they had run out of money, and decided to move in with her brother who was living in Minneapolis. Seeley’s new partner, Jim, was a conscientious objector and was able to get a job in a local hospital, while Seeley began working at a community clinic part time. Though they settled down to build a stable lifestyle for themselves and Julia, both continued their activism and were engaged in the Minnesota food coop movement that took place in the early 1970s . Reflecting on her experience at Kent State in 2020, Seeley said “it was so out of the realm of my prior experience in life, and subsequent experience.” Seeley did not return to Kent State for forty seven years after the event. She described the experience of her first retur n to the campus since the event in 2017: “It seemed so much smaller, the space. In my memory it was this huge space. And when I got there it was just – it’s not big; it’s small!” Along with her sister who accompanied her on the trip, Seeley walked around B lanket Hill, retracing her steps from the traumatic day. Seeley said that as she retraced her footsteps, “it was like my body remembered. My body remembered the experience at that moment. And before that it hadn’t .” With emotion heavy in her voice, Seeley continued: And then, when my body remembered it, it was like the emotion of it flooded back to me and it all made sense again and it all came together for me. And then, I just really wanted to leave after that. I saw, they have it marked, the places where the students died, where their bodies were lying on the ground. I went to each of those spots and I found the spot where I went and stood around Dean Kahler. I didn’t even know who he was. I had no idea. Seeley’s embodied emotional response might be unde rstood as a remembering or an awareness of the dis ease she experienced during the event. Experiencing the space again and reliving the memories of that tragic day elicited a sense of grief that Seeley had not previously been able to express. Reflecting on her experience in 2020, Seeley communicated her belief that the shock of

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246 the situation may have caused her to have post traumatic amnesia. She believes that though she remembers parts of what happened, that she may have lost some memories from that day, l eaving her with “patchwork memories” about the event. Despite the trauma she experienced, and the lasting impact of her dis ease, Seeley continued to be an activist, and would go on to become active in the women’s movement, the anti nuclear movement, and the environmental movement. Her activism, however, has also been informed and mutually reinforced by her career in midwifery, through which Seeley has been a devoted advocate for women, including women of color . A Radical Midwife For Seeley, Julia’s bir th was a pivotal moment which led to her development as an environmentalist and influenced her future career. Though Seeley wanted to breastfeed Julia when she was born, her doctors discouraged her. “I had to fight the hospital in order to have access to m y baby so that I could feed her ,” she recalled. “You couldn’t go get your baby. It was like the baby belonged to them .” As Julia grew, Seeley was invested in feeding her the very best foods and began thinking about environmentalism in terms of how to provi de the best nutrition for her daughter. Seeley had her second child, son Nicholas, with her husband Jim on 1 September 1972. The childbirth process she had with Nicholas was significantly better than the one she had with Julia and enabled Seeley to unde rstand the power and importance of a positive birth experience for women. Soon thereafter, she agreed to serve as the birthing coach for her neighbor, and through that process was exposed to midwifery for the first time. “My whole world caught on fire when I realized that was what I wanted to do ,” Seeley recalled. She enrolled in nursing school in Minnesota and after completing her degree, she began working with a doctor who was doing home births in the area. Seeley became active in the lay midwife movement , a community

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247 of midwives that “studied together” and “learned about herbs and traditions” and “took care of one another .” It was around the same time, Seeley said, that she became involved in the women’s movement which further fueled her passion for mid wifery. “I started thinking about ‘what do I want to do?’ instead of ‘what am I supposed to do?’ .” [The women’s movement] really woke me up a lot. Right around the time I started learning about midwifery. And I saw it as a way to empower women. Midwifery is a great way to become, feel strong. [It] is a very feminine occupation right, but it is also a subversive occupation. This whole business of midwifery is a means of creating revolutionary change in our world and I still hold to that. Because when women are able to be themselves and go through birth, and experience it in a supportive, loving powerful way, they come out of it on the other end like ‘I can do anything now’. It was also during the women’s movement that Seeley decided to divorce Jim, whi ch she did in November 1975. She recalled that her motivations for getting married were primarily focused on providing her daughter Julia with a stable and happy childhood, despite what she believed was the beginning of revolution in the United States. I thought it would bring me happiness, and it did not. our marriage came from being battered around by outside circumstances and if we had both been in our right minds, probably neither one of us would have gotten married to each other. In 1978, Seeley converted to Judaism, a religion that she continued to practice when we spoke in 2020. Studying Objectivism in college had been very good for her, she recalled: it was very cold.... It was completely contrary to my inner belief. My mother was a social worker and taught us that a good life was founded in helping others. The Methodist church emphasized helping the poor [and] the downtroddenso that was very much inculcated into my being. Learning that there was such a thing as Objectivism, where people really didn’t give a shit about anybody else was really good for me because I had assumed that everybody cared about everybody. And then I learned that wasn’t true. That flipped me back into really wanting to learn about spirituality.

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248 As a single mother be tween 1975 and 1978, Seeley thought that it was important for her children to have a religious education. She took them to various churches, but nothing seemed to fit. At the same time, Seeley said, she was reading books by Jewish theologians, writers, pol itical activists, and philosophers including Abraham Joshua Heschel, Isaac Bashevis Singer, Martin Buber, and Rabbi Lawrence Kushner. The ethical precepts of Judaism and the commitment to living life well here on Earth, along with no speculation about what happens after death, engaged my imagination. I liked the family centeredness of Jewish worship, and I appreciated the Earth centered holidays based on the lunar calendar. It’s about what you do right now that is really important. Tikkun Olam, “ caring for the earth ,” was the principle that really drew me in a lot. And also, just the thing about being true to your word and taking care of other people. That was extremely powerful for me. I felt inspired. I made an appointment with the rabbi and asked him i f I could convert. The rabbi turned Seeley away and suggested that she find a good church, though she said he did so in a tender and respectful way. She went back to him twice more before he finally agreed. When Seeley converted, her children were automatically converted as well. Seeley married again in 1980. Her new husband, Michael, was also Jewish. They had their child, son Isaac, on 18 December 1980. Seeley, Michael, and the three children moved to California in August 1982 and settled in San Luis O bispo. After they relocated, Seeley continued to work as a midwife practicing home birth. In 1988, she decided to go back to school to become a nurse midwife. She attended a community based midwifery training program administered in San Jose and supported by her home health department in San Luis Obispo. Seeley completed the program in two years, though she also recalled how hard it was travelling back and forth between San Jose and San Luis Obispo, working, and raising a family. After completing the progra m, she entered into residency where she had to complete thirty deliveries to get certified. Because the number of births in San Luis Obispo was so low, Seeley said it would have taken a

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249 long time to complete her certification there. Instead, she traveled to two different locations to complete her residency, one in Fresno, California and the other in Yuma, Arizona. She spoke to the diverse populations that she served and the valuable lessons she learned during that time. In Fresno, it was mostly all farm wo rkers. A lot of them were Oaxacan [indigenous people from present day Oaxaca, Mexico] and they didn’t speak Spanish [or English]. It was so interesting to work with them because they had a lot of indigenous knowledge about birth that they brought with them . I learned a lot from them. And the same in Yuma. It was mostly Native American women and they had certain traditions. Like the Oaxacan women did not want to give birth on a bed. It was not in their lexicon. In Fresno they had tobut back in San Luis we made a birthing space on the floor for them. After completing her residency, Seeley became a nurse midwife and worked in that capacity for 21 years, until her retirement in 2011. For Seeley, her career in midwifery has been directly connected to her en vironmental beliefs and proclivities and she understands it as an environmentalist occupation. To me, midwifery is the heart and soul of environmentalism because it’s about the future beings and the safety of our food supply, and our water, and our cultur e, and our family system. When people create families, it’s such – it’s like it becomes your life. Once you have a child, forever, as long as you live, always, your children are foremost in your mind. So, I was naturally a very radical person and I was al so a very radical midwife. For Seeley, being a “radical midwife” meant operating outside of what the prevailing medical model taught, specifically when it came to the idea that the practitioner is the expert on the birth process. My foundational worldvie w on midwifery is that birth belongs to the mother. Birth does not belong to the practitioner. I see pregnancy and birth and breastfeeding as natural functions of the human female. There is intuitive knowledge and there is also a traditional knowledge that is passed down generationally. Women need to be trusted – when they are pregnant, when they are in labor, and when they are giving birth. As a resource of knowledge, it is the duty of the practitioner to support that[but] you allow for that process to ta ke place without intervention if possible. So, less is more in birth, and that is radical.

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250 Throughout her career as a midwife, Seeley practiced “radical midwifery ,” working as an advocate and ally for numerous women, including women of color , during thei r birthing processes. In the process, she has honored and supported the beliefs and traditions of numerous expectant mothers, quieted their dis ease, and empowered them to have a positive birth experience, while also ensuring that they had safe deliveries. Mothers for Peace It was only a day or two after moving to California, Seeley recalled, that one of her neighbors, Jane Swanson, came over with a plate of cookies to introduce herself and welcome the family to the neighborhood. Swanson was a member of an organization called Mothers for Peace and she invited Seeley to attend a meeting with her. Seeley agreed, attended the next meeting, and immediately joined the organization. San Luis Obispo Mothers for Peace (henceforth Mothers) is a 501(c)(3) nonprofi t, grassroots organization founded in 1969 by Liz Apfelberg and Sandy Silver.5 At the time, June Stembridge was a young mother who had recently relocated to San Luis Obispo and who had been involved in the anti war movement. She wrote to her local newspaper and appealed to other members of the community who were opposed to the Vietn am War. She sought like minded people who were interested in developing a way to promote dialogue between community members about their grief and frustration with the war and wanted to have a meeting in her living room to talk about being opposed to the wa r. The first meetings were small, hosting less than a dozen members, and were comprised of “mostly educated, white, middle class mothers” who had young children at the time (Wills 2006, 71), though, as Silver clarified, not all of the participants were mot hers. Though the organization is not exclusively a women’s organization 5 For more information about Mothers for Peace, see their website “ Mothers for Peace” ( n.d. ).

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251 and welcomes men, their members are primarily women, including mothers, grandmothers, and nonmothers. The Mothers initially considered joining an existing women’s organizations such a s Another Mother for Peace, but they did not take on new branches, so the Mothers had to create their own organization. When they were trying to decide on a name, Silver said, the Mothers decided that they “wanted it to be positive, so we wanted to be for something rather than against something.” The early group initially distributed literature to draftees at the Greyhound Bus Station to tell them about becoming conscientious objectors to the war. The group remained active in the anti War movement until 1973, when they learned that Pacific Gas and Electric Company (henceforth PG&E) was planning to build a nuclear power plant near their hometown, at Diablo Canyon. “They did not even know what a nuclear power plant was really,” Seeley remarked, “but they did not think it sounded like a good idea .” Diablo Canyon – A Brief History In 1954, the U.S. Congress passed an amendment to the Atomic Energy Act of 1946 which allowed private companies to invest in and develop nuclear energy production as part of President Dwight D. Eisenhower’s Atoms for Peace Program.6 PG&E was one of the first to take advantage of government subsidies used to entice companies into joining the nuclear industry, when, in 1957, they built an “experimental reactor called Vallecitos in Livermore Valley, California” (Wills 2006 , 38). They in vested heavily in the advancing technology, and “promised a new era for California energy provision through developing the ‘fuel for the future’” (Wills 2006, 38). Growing energy demands in California and the seemingly boundless possibilities of nuclear power facilitated a positive public response. Between 1958 and 1964, PG&E developed 6 For the full bill, see “Atomic Energy Act of 1954” ( 2014).

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252 plans to build a nuclear reactor in Bodega Bay, California. However, controversy began to develop over the proposed site in 1963 when Alfred Hitchcock released his film The Birds . Set in Bodega Bay, the movie portrayed a series of random bird attacks on innocent locals. The film also “signified one disaster fantasy for Bodega ,” Wills wrote, though another, more realistic disaster fantasy “concerned an earthquakeinduced atomi c incident” (Wills 2006, 39). When geologist Pierre Saint Amand discovered a fault connected to the San Andreas Fault in 1963, which ran directly under the proposed nuclear site, PG&E withdrew their plan for a nuclear plant at Bodega Bay. Later that year, however, the company announced that it would build five reactors in the Nipomo Dunes, south of San Francisco. In response, the Sierra Club entered into negotiations with PG&E, and eventually agreed on a land deal to help conserve the Dunes, as well as oth er ecologically diverse areas along the California coastline. In the agreement, Diablo Canyon was presented as the alternative option for a nuclear power plant. Located in San Luis Obispo County near Avila Beach and approximately 180 miles south of San Jos e, Diablo Canyon lies on the coast on the western side of the San Luis Mountain Range. Wills has detailed much of the rich history of Diablo Canyon expounding on the diversity of indigenous populations that called the area home at various points throughout history and emphasizing the ecological value and diversity that conservationists observed in the area in the mid 1900s (Wills 2006). The rugged cliff line prevented much development in the region and, as a result, a large expanse north of Diablo Canyon wa s designated as Montana de Oro State Park in 1965 (Wills 2006). Wills wrote that the “[Sierra] Club directors condoned the nuclear project at Diablo as a means to free up corporate owned land farther south along the coastline for state park purchase. The controversial ‘sacrifice’ of Diablo Canyon almost split the club” and led to the resignation/firing of legendary environmentalist David Brower as Executive

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253 Director (Wills 2006 , 2). PG&E agreed to the plan, obtaining a construction permit for Unit 1 of the nuclear power plant in 1968, and another for Unit 2 in 1970. Initially, the proposal for Diablo Canyon garnered support from residents. This was due, in part, to the positive connotation associated with nuclear power marketing which promoted it as a cleaner, more efficient form of power. Over time, however, concerns about the negative consequences of atomic radiation prompted protests to the construction of the plant. When the Hosgri fault was discovered less than three miles from the proposed nuclear sit e in 1973, public opposition grew. Among those most well known and longest lasting protests to the plant were those organized by Scenic Shoreline Preservation Conference, Mothers for Peace, and the Abalone Alliance.7 The Passion of Mothers Wills wrote that the Mothers learned about the proposal for the Diablo Canyon Nuclear Power Plant in 1973 through a series of articles written by Jim Hayes that were published in the Telegram Tribune (Wills 2006, 71).8 But Silver said in 2021 that by 1973, she and the other Mothers were already well aware of the plant because construction had already begun. However, at the time, they were still focused on the anti war effort. “We were nave,” she said, “because we thought that someone was going to come and tell everybo dy that it was not a good idea to have a nuclear power plant there .” She went on to clarify her early awareness about the problems of nuclear radiation: “I came to it when my first child was born in 1963, because in my Pediatricians’ office there was a big poster against the atomic bomb testing in the atmosphere 7 Scenic Shoreline Preservation Conference was formed by members of the Sierra Club who were opposed to PG&E’s plan to build a nuclear plant at Diablo Canyon. For a detailed timeline of Mothers for Peace’s involvement in the movement, see “Mothers for Peace Timeline” ( n.d. ). 8 Seeley corroborated this history of events in our interviews in 2019.

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254 because nuclear radiation was found in breastmilk .” Swanson confirmed: “I still remember the meeting where Sandy said the words ‘PG&E is building a nuclear power plant’. I was so ignorant I didn’t know what the heck she was talking about. But that was long before 1973 – that was maybe in 1970.” Swanson also clarified that part of their anti war focus was opposition to atmospheric nuclear testing and said, “we were very on top of what the fallout was from atmospheric testing .” She further explained: As we learned about them, we learned that the radioactive fallout from nuclear power plants contains exactly the same elements that are produced by the fission of a nuclear bomb. I mean fission is fission, it either happens all at once or over time. And so, that was what grabbed me. And I thought, wait a minute, we’re against needless loss of life in Vietnamwe’re against the needless loss of life as radiation falls from atmospheric testing and gets in moth ers’ milk and causes genetic damageso we have to be against the loss of life that will come from the radioactive waste produced by these plants. In 1973, Silver said, there was a court decision that deemed it necessary for nuclear power plants to have a n environmental impact statement (EIS). Although Diablo Canyon was almost finished at the time, PG&E had to go back and do an EIS to be in compliance with the new legal ruling. “That’s when things bubbled up into the Hayes article ,” Silver clarified. Conce rned with the potential and unknown effects of nuclear power, Apfelberg, Silver, and others set out to study its implications for themselves. Wills contended that “their actions implied a level of distrust of corporate America from the outset”: they avoide d “materials from major U.S. corporations involved in the nuclear industry [and] instead turned to John Gofman and Arthur Tamplin’s highly critical evaluation of atomic energy, Poisoned Power: The Case against Nuclear Power Plants (1971)” (Wills 2006, 71; Gofman and Tamplin 1971). But that assessment, Silver and Swanson aver was also untrue. Instead, they said that they came to Gofman and others after they were already informed on the issues, and after they had already applied for legal intervenor status. S ilver’s husband, Gordon, who was a physics professor at California Polytechnic Institute,

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255 helped to educate the Mothers about nuclear power (Hudson 2017). The organization also invited a number of other speakers to present at their meetings to aid them in learning about nuclear power and the anti nuclear movement. The Mothers Board had decided the group should apply to have legal intervenor status for Diablo Canyon meaning, Seeley said, that “they would be privy to having access to all of the documents that were filed on behalf of the nuclear power plant .” Wills wrote that in case the Mothers decided to pull away from the anti nuclear issue as an organization, that Silver and Apfelberg also filed independently as legal intervenors (Wills 2006, 72). “We act ually became accidental intervenors,” Silver told me, contesting Wills’ history. At a meeting of the AEC held in Morro Bay to discuss the draft EIS, a lawyer advised the Mothers that they should hold intervenor status because intervenors should be local re presentatives. Silver clarified that the reason she and Apfelberg filed independently was because, at the time, Mothers was not an incorporated organization, and they were not sure whether they would be granted legal intervenor status as an organization but knew they could get it as individuals. In order to achieve the goal of becoming legal intervenors, the Mothers began by airing their grievances about plant construction with both PG&E and the nuclear industry (Wills 2006, 72). On 15 November 1973, they appealed directly to the Atomic Energy Commission (AEC) for legal intervenor status, citing concerns about human health and environmental impact of the proposed plant (“Mothers for Peace Timeline” n.d.). The appeal was granted. Since that time, they have f unctioned as a legal intervenor in litigation concerning safety in the operating procedures of the plant including those related to seismic safety, the storage of high level radioactive nuclear waste, planning and consequences of potential terrorist attack s, and licensing renewal for the plant.

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256 Though Wills was critical of the organization in some respects, he commended the Mothers, saying that they: articulated similar concerns to those of social justice environmentalists who, in the 1990s, rallied behind the principle that All Americans have a basic right to live, work, and play in a healthy environment. Despite differences in race and class, the Obispan Mothers viewed the environment in a similar way to social justice advocates by interpreting pol lution as an infringement on human rights . (Wills 2006, 73) Despite how useful this connection proves in showing a direct link between the inclusiveness of the Mothers’ anti nuclear initiatives and later social justice movements, the way Wills has framed it is highly problematic. His language implies a retrospective analysis, wherein he looks backward and applies categories of social and environmental justice activism onto the Mothers group. This retrospective understanding undermines the novel ways that t he Mothers fought against nuclear power and for environmental justice in their community, well before the formation of the social and environmental justice movements of the 1990s that Wills referenced. Moreover, his analysis fails to take seriously the influence that women and women’s organizations during the anti nuclear movement, including Mothers, had on later generations of activists, including those involved in environmental and social justice movements. Wills also noted the broader connections that the Mothers drew between Diablo Canyon and the nuclear arms race and the Cold War and explained that their transition from antiwar to anti nuclear protesters did not go uncontested within the group. As a pacifist group, the Mothers came to Diablo with pre conceptions over nuclear energy. They naturally situated the nuclear age within a broader discourse of the arms race, weapon development, and human health worries. The atomic bomb provided a psychological bridge between opposing the Vietnam War and challen ging the Diablo plant. Skeptical of the peaceful intentions of nuclear power, some members of the group found it only reasonable to show concern over their new neighbor. For others, however, protesting an electrical plant appeared a highly inappropriate ca use for pacifists. An antiwar group did not necessarily translate into an antinuclear one, for the routine construction at Diablo Canyon

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257 seemed far removed from the experiential horrors of conflict in Vietnam. (Wills 2006, 72) But in a conversation with S ilver and Swanson in 2021, both women sought to clarify what they thought Wills got wrong. Silver said, for instance that “[Wills] came to [his research] from an environmentalist, Sierra Club, point of view. As women, we understand that there is a nuance t hat he didn’t pick up” about Mothers. Silver and Swanson both contested his description of the Mothers as “pacifists.” Swanson said, for instance, – “we didn’t discuss that word. We didn’t talk about ‘we are pacifists. ’ We were very, very strongly against the war in Vietnam for all the reasons everybody still is – it was a sham, manufactured, needless loss of life – that’s the one that hit me, and still does ,” she said, with emotion heavy in her voice. “I questioned myself if I was a pacifist. I did n’t draw any conclusions for about thirty years. At this present moment I would call myself a pacifist if that means realizing that war does not solve problems it just kills innocent people .” Moreover, both women suggested that Wills’ representation of t he Mothers’ transition from anti war to anti nuclear organization was overstated, in that he implied that there was internal disagreement or a schism within the organization. Silver explained her memory in detail in an attempt to clarify what she thought W ills misrepresented: When the Vietnam War began to die down then there was the question – we didn’t form this organization to be permanent – but we were working together and then I brought up the idea about nuclear power plants. Even then, we didn’t have a word for it, but we worked by consensus so that we did not have – there was no confrontation, there was no schism. People who were there who wanted just to get us out of Vietnam, they dropped out but there was no argument, there was no judgement about whe ther they should go or whether they should stay.We didn’t really have consciousness raising groups before this. We were just sort of pioneering this thing without having any idea that we were doing it as a movementor as part of a feminist movement at the time.

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258 In 2021, Mothers had approximately twentyfive core members of which ten to fifteen attended meetings regularly. The organization also had around four hundred essential supporters, regularly called upon to show up for meetings with the public uti lities commission and protests, and a mailing list of over two thousand subscribers invested in keeping up with the work Mothers does. Mothers also has two essential legal team members who work with the organization to pursue legal action against PG&E, the NRC, and others, when needed. Diane Curran, a partner at Harmon, Curran, Spielberg and Eisenberg in Washington, D.C. is the Mothers attorney for any cases involving the NRC. Sabrina Venskus is a toprated attorney of environmental litigation in California and serves as the Mothers lawyer for any cases involving the Public Utilities Commission. “They are both brilliant,” Seeley said, as she spoke to the effectiveness of the Mothers’ legal interventions. Since 1973, when they obtained legal intervenor status, Mothers has been the persistent “watchdog” of Diablo Canyon. In 2017, Sandy Silver spoke to the gendered dynamics of the groups’ anti nuclear efforts and recalled that in the beginning, when they atte mpted to stop the licensing, the members of Mothers were “looked upon as hysterical little ladies” (Hudson 2017). Nevertheless, Mothers played a key role in a pre hearing conference with the Atomic Safety and Licensing Board (ASLB), wherein they, and othe r groups, spoke to the problems of building a nuclear site on an earthquake fault. On 1 May 1974, the AEC rejected a request made by Scenic Shoreline Preservation Conference that construction plans be halted until further studies on the fault line could be conducted. In response to that rejection, Mothers and Cal Poly Ecology Action Club organized a protest for the following day. Thirty people came out to protest at the AEC hearings and voiced their discontent at the lack of an adequate public forum and the

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259 AEC’s failure to halt construction. This was the first antinuclear direct action protest Mothers engaged in. On 24 September 1974, a 2.9 magnitude earthquake struck just seven miles offshore of the proposed nuclear plant and was felt on site at Diablo C anyon (Pacific Gas and Electric Company 2016). Two days later, Mothers filed a motion with the ASLB appealing to them to halt construction on the plant until additional studies on seismic activity in the area could be completed. That motion was denied. Thi ngs began “ramping up” after that, according to Seeley. From the time they found out about the Diablo Canyon proposal until October 1976, Mothers served as their own lawyers against PG&E, with Apfelberg, Silver, and another member, Raye Fleming, as actin g attorneys. In 1976, Mothers appealed to the Center for Law in the Public Interest, and secured an attorney named Joel Reynolds from Los Angeles, California to represent the organization in its legal battles against PG&E. The first real success for Mothers came in August 1977, when their new attorney successfully blocked PG&E from obtaining an interim license to begin construction on the plant (“Mothers for Peace Timeline” n.d.). As the number of protests grew beginning in 1976, national media attention t urned to the growing public opposition. Among the numerous protests that occurred, several significant protests had a religious focus. In early 1976, for instance, eight activists were arrested at Diablo Canyon during a nonviolent demonstration where the protesters were praying at the front gates (Schills 2011). Shortly thereafter, participants from the Continental Peace Walk, a project created by the War Resisters League to promote disarmament, intentionally marched through San Luis Obispo on their 8,000mile trek between Ukiah, California and Washington, D.C. A number of religious organizations sponsored the walk, including Southern Christian Leadership Conference, Catholic Peace Fellowship, Clergy and Laity Concerned and American Friends

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260 Service Committe e (“Continental Walk51978” 2018). The Berrigan Brothers and Dorothy Day also signed the call, showing their support for the walk (“Continental Walk51978” 2018). Among those walkers were sixteen monks and nuns who traveled from Japanese peace groups and completed the entire walk, in solidarity with American activists (“Continental Walk51978” 2018). Later, in 1984 during a blockade facilitated by the Abalone Alliance, protesters held a mock crucifixion and procession in front of the main entrance to Diablo Canyon (Schills 2011). In addition to religious protests, the organization People Against Nuclear Power, which was founded in California with support from the Quakers in 1977, openly condemned Diablo Canyon, among other nuclear facilities (Schills 2011). One of the major actors in the Diablo Canyon anti nuclear protests, and one that had close ties with the Mothers group for some time, was the Abalone Alliance. The nonviolent civil disobedience group was formed in May 1977, in response to the California Department of Fish and Game’s announcement in January 1975 which revealed that between 4,000 and 13,000 Red Abalone, a variety of marine snails, were killed in Diablo Canyon’s first “hot flush” in 1974 (Evanoff 2016). The Abalone Alliance mode led their affinity group work on the Clamshell Alliance in New Hampshire. Mothers voted less than a month after the group was founded to become part of the Abalone Alliance. The Alliance was responsible for facilitating several major nonviolent, civil dis obedience protests at Diablo Canyon, beginning with the 6 August 1977 blockade where 47 people were arrested (Giugni 2004, 44). One year later, on 6 August 1978, the group organized a similar protest: this time, 487 protesters were arrested (Giugni 2004, 44). Mothers officially withdrew from the Alliance in 1980. Seeley said that they did so because of concerns that civil disobedience would interfere with their legal intervenor status, which would jeopardize their ability as an organization to fight PG&E’s building and operation plans for the

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261 plant. Despite the organization’s withdrawal from the Alliance, “most of the members” continued to actively practice civil disobedience. “But we did that as individuals” Seeley clarified, “not as representatives of Moth ers for Peace.” In May 1979, the NRC postponed the operating license for Unit 1 in order to review the security plans. The moratorium was precipitated by the disaster at Three Mile Island which had occurred only two months prior, and a dramatic increase in public opposition to and civil disobedience at Diablo Canyon in its aftermath. Two major protests against Diablo Canyon took place that year: the first, held in San Francisco on 8 April boasted 30,000 protesters; the second, held on 30 June in Avila Bea ch had nearly 40,000. Despite the public backlash and widespread opposition, the ASLB ruled that Diablo Canyon was “earthquake safe with adequate security plans” in October 1979 (“Mothers for Peace Timeline” n.d.). Debates continued for the next two years while PG&E continued to fight to obtain the necessary licensing to operate the plant. The day prior to the ASLB licensing hearing on 19 May 1981, Mothers organized a protest that was endorsed by seventeen other citizen’s groups and attended by more than 1, 000 protesters (“Mothers for Peace Timeline” n.d.). Despite continued opposition from the public, the NRC formally approved the seismic design, physical security plan, and low power test license for Diablo Canyon in a series of decisions between June and S eptember 1981 (“Mothers for Peace Timeline” n.d.). Directly after the NRC approved the operating license, the Abalone Alliance facilitated a full scale blockade at Diablo Canyon, which began on 15 September 1981, and lasted for two weeks. It was, to date, the largest anti nuclear protest in the United States.9 In addition to 9 The following year, it would be surpassed as t he largest by the 12 June protest held in Central Park, in New York City.

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262 protesters, “two thousand members of the press descended on the area” and, anticipating large protest groups, state officials called in “five hundred National Guardsmen and 270 office rs from the California Highway Patrol” (Wills 2006 , 104). Protesters arrived in droves, setting up camp at the entrance, hiking along the cliffs to get to the plant, and making their way into the cove by boat (Wills 2006: 104). Over the course of the two w eeks, 1,960 protesters were arrested, and the work on the plant was temporarily halted (Giugni 2004, 45). Later that month, an engineer noticed a critical design flaw with the containment dome of the Unit 1 reactor: the seismic supports had been built ba ckward. “We never thought it would go online because it was built backward ,” Seeley recalled. “They had to completely tear it down and do it all over again.” The repair cost $2.2 billion (Kahn 2011). Mothers reported that by December 1982 “close to 200 err ors in the plant had been discovered” (“Mothers for Peace Timeline” n.d.). Despite those errors, PG&E continued working to obtain licensing approval from the NRC. Oaks and Acorns – Non Violent Direct Action at Diablo Canyon When Seeley attended her first Mothers meeting in 1982, the fight against Diablo Canyon was already well underway. As a new member, Seeley participated in fundraising and campaigns, and helped with poster making for actions. Through 1982 and 1983, Mothers continued to pursue legal inte rvention to prevent Diablo Canyon from going online. Among those efforts, Mothers organized a campaign to write letters to Morris Udall, then the Chairman of the U.S. House of Representatives Committee on Interior and Insular Affairs, about concerns with the licensing scheduling approved by the NRC (“Mothers for Peace Timeline” n.d.). In response, Udall wrote to then Chairman of the NRC, Nunizo Palladino, on 11 January 1983 and expressed his concerns in the lack of public confidence in the project, and with the NRC’s failure to respond to public concerns (Udall 1983). Therein, Udall called attention to five primary

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263 concerns regarding the licensing schedule approved by the NRC and PG&E’s implementation of fuel loading prior to the completion of a full review considering seismic design and safety of Diablo Canyon.10 Palladino responded to Udall over a month later, on 17 February 1983, and stated: Let me assure you that under no condition will we authorize the Diablo Canyon facility to begin operation until we h ave reasonable assurance that the public health and safety is adequately protected. More specifically we will require a high level of confidence that no significant design or construction deficiencies affecting safety at any authorized level of operation e xist at the facility before reaching a decision to authorize that level of operation. (Udall 1983) Seeley explained her view that the NRC is “what they call a captive agency” meaning that it is “completely in the pocket of the nuclear industry. Whatever the industry wants, the NRC rubber stamps.” With a growing sense of dis ease, Mothers Nancy Culver and Sandy Silver gave invited testimony at an Oversight Hearing on the Licensing Process of Diablo Canyon in front of the U.S. House of Representatives’ Su bcommittee on Energy and the Environment on 8 March 1983. They voiced their concern that the “truth of Diablo Canyon’s design” was being masked and expressed their growing fears about the lack of safety of the plant ( Licensing Process at Diablo Canyon Nucl ear Powerplant 1983). Later that year, on 9 November, Mothers went to the U.S. Court of Appeals and filed a case for an injunction against PG&E fuel loading (“Mothers for Peace Timeline” n.d.). The Court of Appeals granted the injunction on 11 November, but then rescinded their decision only four days later, on 15 November (“Mothers for Peace Timeline” n.d.). Meanwhile, PG&E began loading fuel in preparation for opening the plant. 10 For the full exchange, see Udall ( 1983).

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264 On 13 January 1984, the Abalone Alliance began an extended blockade of Diablo, called the People’s Emergency Response Plan. The blockade included direct action protests at the main entrance of the plant, as well as at the PG&E office headquarters in San Luis Obispo (Schills 2011). Seeley created an affinity group to participate in the protests. The group was called the Oaks and Acorns and was made up of mothers and children who were all trained in nonviolent, direct action, civil disobedience. I did it because I have three kids. I had moved here from Minnesota and I did not beli eve that a nuclear power plant could be opened on a place where all these earthquake faults were. I knew that nuclear power plants were dangerous and that they gave out constant bits of radiation over time. I didn’t want my children or anybody else’s children to grow up like that. During the blockade, Seeley and other members of the Oaks and Acorns participated by sitting along the blue marked property line of PG&E to prevent the workers from entering. Anyone who crossed the property line was subject to a rrest. “That was pretty big ,” Seeley said. The blockade lasted for four months, and 537 people were arrested during that period (“Mothers for Peace Timeline” n.d.; Schills 2011). Seeley was one of them. Having been a part of the anti war movement during Vi etnam and knowing about civil disobedience and knowing that the power of the people is really our strongest tool I decided that I had a higher purpose than the law. The infraction was trespassing onto the private property of PG&E. I thought that the healt h and safety of our community and of future generations was a lot more important than a trespassing law, so that’s why I did it. The NRC officially approved the licensing for Diablo Canyon, and though there were continued concerns and protests, the plant went online on 29 April 1984. Mothers. delayed it for 10 years, for more than 10 years, with their taking the NRC and PG&E to court. But it did open, but I think there is pretty general agreement, even among the NRC, that the Mothers for Peace have mad e a big difference in terms of safetyand safety culture across the country at nuclear power plants.

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265 Despite losing the battle to prevent the licensing for Diablo, Mothers’ work was far from done. They continued to work tirelessly to ensure that the plant operated safely and to ensure the health and safety of the local residents. As of December 2020, there have been no major incidents at Diablo Canyon since it went online. Seeley remained very involved with Mothers until 1988, when she scaled down her involvement to go back to midwifery school and focus on her career. Spokesperson for Mothers, Spokesperson for Peace When she retired from midwifery in 2011, Seeley set off on a three day solo quest up the California coast to help her figure out what to do with her life moving forward. “I was hoping to get some big revelation ,” she recalled. All that happened was that I had a realization that I didn’t need to start anything new, that I was already doing with Mothers for Peace what I should be doing, and I wanted to spend more time and more energy doing it. Ever since, Seeley has devoted a great deal of her time to Mothers. Although she had already agreed to serve on the board in 2009, Seeley also agreed to become a spokesperson for the organization in 2011. As a spokes person, Seeley is responsible for speaking to the media, as well as communicating in an official capacity with other organizations, PG&E, and official governmental bodies, including the NRC. She explained the level of decorum and professionalism that it takes to be the spokesperson for such a group, conveying that all her statements must be in alignment with Mothers and everything she says must be verifiable with facts. In August 2011 anti nuclear groups from around California came togethe r for a summit called the Nuclear Free California Network to organize for the shutdown of the states’ nuclear power plants, for a nuclear free future, and for the use of renewable energy resources. This summit was the beginning of an ongoing conversation a bout shutting down Diablo Canyon, which Seeley has been very active in. Along with journalist Harvey Wasserman, Seeley spoke as

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266 part of the Great Minds Series in 2014 and joined the San Francisco Occupy Forum’s strategy session in 2015, both of which focus ed on shutting the plant down (“Mothers for Peace Timeline” n.d.). The Mothers organized a Statewide Nuclear Free California two day meeting in San Luis Obispo in January 2015, which was attended by over 80 activists from around the state (“Mothers for Peace Timeline” n.d.). On 8 November 2017, Judge Peter Allen from the California Public Utilities Commission formally approved that Diablo Canyon would shut down operation when the current operating licenses expire in 2024 (for Unit 1) and 2025 (for Unit 2) (see Proposal Issued on P G &E's Request to Retire Diablo Canyon 2017). “We are hoping and praying that nothing happens between now and then,” Seeley said. In February of 2018, PG&E announced that it would form a Decommissioning Engagement Panel and called for applications from the public to sit on the panel (see “Diablo Canyon Decommissioning Engagement Panel” n.d.). Seeley applied, and was chosen as one of eleven community members to participate from over one hundred applicants. The panel has facili tated community involvement and input on the decommissioning process, but functions only in an advisory capacity, with PG&E and the regulatory agencies still in charge of final decisions regarding the plants’ closing (see “Panel Purpose” n.d.). Though she serves on the panel as a member of the San Luis Obispo community, Seeley said, “there I represent Mothers for Peace, and I have to really reel myself in sometimes and not be outragedand defend the name and reputation of Mothers for Peace and be an honorable representative of that .” One of the more challenging decisions that the panel has been tasked with, Seeley said, is determining what will happen to the nuclear waste after Diablo Canyon shuts down. When we spoke in 2019 and 2020, Seeley relayed inform ation about a proposal to move the waste from

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267 Diablo Canyon to a consolidated interim storage (CIS) site. Two CIS sites have been proposed as potential sites for storage: one outside of Carlsbad, New Mexico, and the other in Andrews County, Texas. The prop osal includes removing spent fuel from nuclear power plants from around the country, including Diablo Canyon, and transporting it across the country to the CIS sites. Seeley emphasized her dis ease with this proposal, and specifically cited the dangers of transporting waste, concerns about the quality of the canisters that the waste is stored in, and the injustice of placing waste in communities that do not want it. Citizens in New Mexico and Texas have been outspoken against the proposal to store waste in their communities. The Congressional delegation of New Mexico appealed to the NRC asking them to delay their decision on the site and said that “any proposal to store commercial spent nuclear fuel raises a number of health, safety and environmental issues” (Martin 2020). The governor of Texas, Greg Abbott even expressed his concern that “placing the waste near oil fields would make an inviting target for terrorists” (Martin 2020). As of March 2021, the proposal to transport the waste to these CIS sites had not been approved. Seeley said that “everyone else on the decommissioning panel wanted to move the waste away ,” but she argued that it should be kept at Diablo Canyon and advocated for the decommissioning panel to prepare for the “safest possible storage and real time monitoring of radiation andthe casks themselves, to make sure they maintain the pressure inside .” Seeley wrote what she referred to as a “moral imperative” as a dissenting opinion in opposition to the panel in May 2019. Therein she advanced an ethical argument for leaving the waste at Diablo Canyon (Seeley 2019b). Among other things, Seeley called attention to the environmental injustice of moving the waste to “sparsely populated, economically stressed locations with very poor, mostly nonWh ite populations” (Seeley 2019b, C 1). Moreover, she argued, the

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268 “responsibility for the waste produced at Diablo Canyon lies with the people of California, who benefitted from the power it generated” and urged that “if the waste is allowed to be moved ‘awa y,’ it will be forgotten” (Seeley 2019b, C 2). “It is our duty ,” she told me, “as moral beings on this planet to learn to take care of [the waste] and to teach the ensuing generations to take care of it too .” This understanding, Seeley said, was informed by her time spent learning about nuclear guardianship from Joanna Macy. In the late 1990s, Seeley first heard Macy speak on the radio interview program “New Dimensions” with Michael Toms. Seeley said that Macy spoke about “the dependent co arising of all phenomena, our interbeing with all sentient life, and the ‘forever’ nature of nuclear waste that makes us aware of deep time (though I don’t know if she used that phrase ) .” Seeley recalled that when Macy “started talking and when I heard what she said, it completely was like OH MY GOD! This is somebody who knows what is inside my heart .” Soon thereafter, Seeley attended a workshop with Macy on the Work that Reconnects at Stanford University. She described meeting and learning from Macy as a pivotal point in her life, and spoke to the guidance, support, and council Macy and her husband Fran offered her over the years. “I wholeheartedly embraced the concept [of nuclear guardianship] when it was explained to me.” Seeley went on to organize a twoday workshop on nuclear guardianship in 2007 in San Luis Obispo County with both Joanna and Fran Macy, which brought in thirty participants. Despite her insistence that the waste be left where it is, Seeley is well aware of the risks that it will pose to Diablo Canyon and her community. The site remains at risk from earthquakes, and any nuclear waste stored at the site could pose a potential contamination risk in the event of a major incident. The risk elevated in October 2019 when Caltech scientists discovered that the Garlock fault, a major fault line that runs along the northern edge of California’s Mojave Desert

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269 and intersects with the San Andreas fault, was moving for the first time in recorded geological history (Lin II 2019). Geologists suggested that the Garlock fault is “capable of producing a magnitude 8 earthquake” and that the recent movement along the fault has “raised the chances of an earthquake of magnitude 7.5 or more” (Lin II 2019). Though the closest point of the Garlock fault lies roughly 140 miles eas t of Diablo Canyon in Frazier Park, CA, scientists believe that a major earthquake could impact the plant. In addition to elevated risks from earthquakes, Seeley spoke to the dangers posed by PG&E’s decision to burn their nuclear fuel at higher temperatures. Though it is “absolutely legal” for them to do so, the result is that the spent fuel comes out at much higher temperatures, and is, therefore, much more radioactive. The fuel must be stored to cool in “spent fuel pools ,” temporary storage containers th at are, in the United States, typically made of “reinforced concrete several feet thick with steel liners” and filled with water “about 40 feet deep” (U.S. Nuclear Regulatory Commission 2019). Spent fuel rods must be removed from the reactor and stored in the spent fuel pools for a specified period of time based on the heat load they carry, and typically for a minimum of five years (U.S. Nuclear Regulatory Commission 2019). This means that fuel rods burned at higher temperatures must be stored in the tempor ary cooling pools for longer periods of time when they are offloaded. After they have cooled significantly, the rods are moved to dry cask storage, “stainless steel canisters surrounded by concrete” (U nited States Nuclear Regulatory Commission 2019). The dry cask storage is also intended to be temporary, with the ultimate goal being permanent disposal at a nuclear waste repository. Permanent repositories pose their own set of challenges, however, and no permanent storage facility for nuclear waste has been agreed upon. This means that those temporary storage sites become, de facto , longterm or permanent sites.

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270 Another concern that Seeley conveyed is that PG&E has used up all their spent fuel canisters, meaning that they do not have any canisters left to st ore the remaining spent nuclear fuel that will need to be offloaded between 2020 and the shutdown of the plant’s reactors in 2024 and 2025. When we spoke in 2019, PG&E was developing a request for proposals for new spent fuel canisters. Seeley was communic ating with the German company GNS, a supplier of casks for spent nuclear fuel, to get approval for sale to the United States (GNS n.d.). The canisters are cast iron and, according to Seeley, “seem to be the safest thing going” because they do not break dow n over time as easily as concrete. When we spoke again in 2020, Seeley said “the NRC refused to give [GNS] license here in the States.” As of March 2021, PG&E had yet to make a decision about the purchase of additional spent fuel containers. When we spoke in 2020, Seeley was pleased to inform me about the formation of a new national coalition of anti nuclear groups which was launched earlier in the year with the intention of addressing major questions about nuclear waste storage. The planning for the coal ition began in 2017 and organizers, including key members from Mothers, created a plan and an organizational framework. The coalition, which, as of December 2020, was still so new that it did not yet have a name, is, according to Seeley, opposed to the tra nsportation of nuclear waste, and believes that a single, permanent repository is not feasible. Instead, their goal is to identify funding sources to help them improve onsite, longterm, storage of nuclear waste. In addition to her role on the Diablo Canyon decommissioning panel, Seeley has become involved with the coalition and is invested in finding solutions to safely store nuclear waste. For Seeley, there is still more work to be done. We are still fighting Diablo Canyon. I think the anti nuclear fight is one of the hardest environmental fights to make, to stay involved in, because it is such a losing battle all the time. But I think our work with Mothers for Peace has kept Diablo Canyon safer. We have so much to do because we still have nuclear

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271 weapons and we will always have nuclear waste, and that’s where our attention will turn. From Love, Ecological Salvation In addition to her anti nuclear work with Mothers, Seeley has been involved with several other environmental groups, and has been a foundi ng member of two recent groups, both of which link spirituality with environmental activism. Seeley was an executive committee member of the Santa Lucia C hapter of the Sierra Club from 2007 until 2015. In 2015, the C hapter appealed to the National Sierra Club to pursue legal action against California Flats Solar, LLC, a solar power company which had obtained permits to construct a solar power farm on an important wildlife corridor in the San Joaquin Valley.11 Among other concerns, the C hapter stated that the construction of such a facility would: result in significant conversion of undeveloped grazing lands to utility scale energy production and would directly result in the loss of habitat and displacement of State and Federally listed wildlife species[ and] the potential loss of habitat connectivity for California’s threatened and endangered species. (Sierra Club: Santa Lucia C hapter 2015) When the National Sierra Club refused to take any legal action against the solar company, in 2015, Seeley and four other executive committee members left the organization and went on to found Biodiversity First! (BDF!). BDF! is a 501(c)(3), non profit, volunteer organization, with a mission to “preserve and protect the wild lands and species upon which we depend for our own physical and spiritual survival” (Biodiversity First! n.d.). The founders used the radical environmental movement Earth First! (EF!) as their model when they decided on a name. The reason they did so, Seeley said, is because “all of us have very fond memories and admiration for 11 For more information and the letter of appeal, see “ Sierra Club: Santa Lucia Chapter” ( 2015).

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272 Earth First!’s work .” She went on to say that the members of BDF! “are firmly committed to protecting biodiver sity and our work has tackled the interconnected nature of wildlife corridors, threatened and endangered species, and water .” When I asked her to speak to her own reasons for helping to found and remain involved with the organization Seeley said that she “ regularly read a journal called Bay Nature , and attended many Bioneers conferences where biodiversity, including the importance of wildlife corridors, is always a central focus of study .”12 Seeley went on to say that Mary Ellen Hannibal’s book The Spine of the Continent (2012) had also influenced her “sense of urgency to create and maintain wildlife corridors .” In the past, BDF! has sponsored a lead free condor feeding station in Southern Monterey County, California in conjunction with the Ventana Wildlife Society and a study on resources on the Salinas River from its headwaters in SLO County to its estuary in Monterey County. In 2021, BDF! funded a project to study the beneficial attributes of beavers on the Salinas River conducted by Emily Fairfax, Ph.D. of California State University, Channel Islands. Their next project, Seeley told me, would be to examine the effects of old growth Juniper trees in the Eastern Carrizo Plain on the biodivers ity of the region. In 2020, Seeley served as the Secretary for the organization and spoke to the importance of protecting wildlife corridors as one particular means of preserving biodiversity. In addition to her work with BDF!, Seeley has also been instr umental in the foundation of San Luis Obispo’s c hapter of Extinction Rebellion (XR). XR is a global movement which began in the United Kingdom in October 2018, when ninety four academics came together to create a call for government action against climate change (see Green et al . 2018). As stated on their websites, “XR is a global environmental movement with the stated aim of using nonviolent civil 12 For the Bay Nature website see “Bay Nature” ( n.d. ). For more information about Bioneers, a non profit organization founded in 1990, see “Bioneers” ( n.d. ).

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273 disobedience to compel government action to avoid tipping points in the climate system, biodiversity loss, and the risk of social and ecological issues” (“Extinction Rebellion” n.d.; “Extinction Rebellion: San Luis Obispo” n.d.). The San Luis Obispo c hapter was facilitated by Seeley and Cal Poly Associate Professor of Mathematics, Erin Pearse. They held their firs t meeting in October of 2019 which drew in about forty five interested individuals. Seeley explained her own understanding of the organization to me in 2019: We have ruined our world right? So, what are we going to do now? Extinction Rebellion – that’s wh at it’s about – what the hell are we going to do now? It’s about caring for each other and being present and facing whatever it is we are going into. It’s like, HELL NO! We are doomed, maybe so, but in the meantime, we are going to try not to be doomed. Not only is it environmental, it is economic, spiritual, social. It covers every single part of our lives and that is why it’s different. Though she was involved in the creation of the XR Chapter , Seeley does not intend to play a major role in the organ ization as it continues to grow. This is due, in part, to her continued commitment to Mothers, but it is also because she believes that the young people should run the organization. She will, however, remain involved, and intends to participate primarily a s a facilitator of the Work That Reconnects (the Work) within the organization. Seeley believes that the Work can play a critical role in XR because of the amount of fear and grief that people have about climate change. “Some people think it’s, tritely, li ke rearranging the chairs on the Titanic ,” Seeley said, speaking to the impending sense of dis ease that many people associate with the worsening climate crisis. I think collapse is almost inevitable. But then there is also that other part, that we cannot predict with certainty how anything will turn out because there are so many variables that are associated with this collapse and the cycles of life on earth that nobodycan put it all together. And there are spontaneous arisings of things that happen tha t are unanticipated. So, with that, I always have this little candle burning inside with hope and optimism.

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274 Seeley teaches the Work to help others come to terms with their grief and to see that there are others who share their cares and worries. Moreove r, she hopes to help people “understand that we share this love, which translates into grief and the ability and capacity to see what we have to offer to the world .” And for Seeley, love can be understood as both spiritual and a pathway toward ecological s alvation. In the sense of loveit’s not necessarily religious per se, but spiritual I would say. In the sense that there is this whole invisible world that we live within and that I can’t see but I sense that there is a lot more than what I can see. It’ s not doctrinal for sure, and I don’t think God is going to save us. But I do think love could save us because from love there is so much that can happen. Seeley clarified during our interviews that she does not believe in God and that Judaism does not demand belief in God, which was one reason she chose it as her religion. Moreover, Seeley has found that for her, Judaism aligns with her understanding of complexly evolved and intelligent nonhuman species as well as her feminist worldview: My thought is, if we[humans] exist with our intelligence, curiosity, creativity, destructiveness, humor, etc., what makes us think that we’re the only ones with all of those attributes? If we have self reflexiveness, how can we presume that we’re alone in that? If we fee l love, maybe lots of other critters do too. If we can h ave transcendent experiences in which we enter into the ineffable, to where do we transcend? It's so exciting to consider the various possibilities. I am also very attracted to the Shekhinah, the femi nine face of God, in Jewish theology. We ritually welcome her into our presence every time we celebrate Shabbat. She can be an avenue for disaffected Jewish women to enter into holiness and communion with her spirit. I very much dislike the patriarchial Je wish hierarchy, not to mention the patriarchy in general, so the feminizing power of the Shekhinah helps me in my Jewish religion. For Seeley, to experience such love, and joy, it is important to spend time in communion with other spirits. The spirits o f the elements wind, fire, earth, water speak to me (us) constantly, and we can learn from them if we open oursleves. The tree spirits, plant spirits, critter spirits, rock and animal spirits I feel all of them. When I am overwhelmed by what's going on in the world, my solace comes from these

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275 spirits. And if I can expeience these spirits with another being of my own species, I feel such joy. Seeley was optimistic about our future and spoke to the “incredible beauty” of people working together in various efforts to save the planet from collapse. Right now, despite the facts, I have a deep feeling of happiness. In or der to create a new way of being that is in harmony with Nature, this massive and colossal system must fail. And it’s happening. I feel that Nature is supporting us, that She is becoming more accessible to us, and that we can use Her guidance to help us th rough these times. She also spoke to her growing proclivity toward radicalism and her commitment to future generations, as well as to the joy she gets from seeing children and younger generations invested in environmentalism. But Seeley is also realist ic about the deteriorating state of the non human natural world and expressed a desire to live another fifty years to see, as she put it, “how things are going to end.” I do think we are headed for collapse. For a very tragic scenario. And how we act duri ng that scenario is what will make the difference in the long run, in terms of our integrity and our own future as conscious beings on this planet. She went on to explain the overwhelming sense of dis ease and despair that comes with understanding the lasting implications of nuclear technologies. If you learn about nuclear waste, I think it’s almost inevitable that you get overwhelmed. To think that, through nuclear fission, we have created new elements that don’t occur in nature and that cause harm to all life forms forever, is pretty overwhelming and can lead to feelings of hopelessness. I believe that the reason so many people, including other environmentalists, turn away from the problem of nuclear waste is that it has no solution. Other problems (greenhouse gases, plastics, etc.) can theoretically be dealt with, but radiation is forever. For Seeley, being able to confront the issue of nuclear waste and the hopelessness that comes along with it has been directly tied to her understanding of her place in nature.

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276 By getting some grasp on my own place in Nature, I can regard nuclear waste wit h a more compassionate attitude. After all, nuclear waste never asked to be made. But it's here now, and it's deeply reviled. When I was a midwife I had to witness and deal with things that most people would consider disgusting (shit, vomit, blood, agony, etc.), and I often remember having to breathe through it, calm my inner revulsion, and tell myself that this is part of life, too. Anything that really counts is not easy, nor is it necessarily beautiful. That's how I convince myself that the nuclear waste problem can be faced. In her anti nuclear work, and throughout her life, Seeley has been an advocate for women and the environment. In her continuing work, Seeley is invested in teaching people about the threat of radioactive nuclear waste, which she b elieves is the most potent environmental toxin, poses the longest lasting environmental threat to the planet, and is a growing concern as global sea levels rise. But for Seeley, it is also critical that we embrace our dis ease and accept where we are headed, so that we can act with love as we move forward. “It matters how we live our lives while we watch and act .”

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277 CHAPTER 9 A CHOICE BETWEEN TWO DIVERGE NT FUTURES: ON KAREN COULTER AND NUCLEAR WEAPONS I have a spiritual connection and an emotional c onnection to placewith nature [which] keeps me more pure in my ideology and more radical in the positions I take . Karen Coulter1 Figure 91: A Portrait of Karen Coulter.2 “If you were to ask my mother‘when did Karen first become an activist? ,’ she would say ‘age eleven ,’ ” Karen Coulter told me in an interview in 2020, speaking to her life long proclivity toward environmental activism. “You can’t just toss out the meaning of your life .” Indeed, she has not. When we spoke in 2021, Coulter was 62 and still engaged in a number of activist causes aimed at protecting and preserving forests and biodiversity and fighting climate change. Coulter first became involved with direct action and nonviolent civil disobedience during the anti nucle ar movement when nuclear weapons began to threaten the 1 All quotations in this Chapter that are not cited from published sources are from author interviews with Karen Coulte r that were conducted by telephone on 29 January 2020; 6 February 2020; 20 January 2021 ; and 15 February 2021 and emails exchanged on 21 January 2021 and 25 January 2021. 2 Image provided by Karen Coulter.

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278 place she called home. Her “not in my backyard (NIMBY)” inspired anti nuclear activism continued into the mid1980s when the anti nuclear movement began to dissipate in the United States. Exhilarated by the success of her anti nuclear activism, Coulter wanted to remain engaged, so she turned her focus to the environmental movement, as did many other anti nuclear activists. “Getting involved with [the anti nuclear movement] kept me in activism, kept me engaged. I did everything I could think of from that point ,” she said. Since then, she has been a campaigner for the well known environmental organization Greenpeace and a radical environmental activist in the movement Earth First! (EF!) and went on to cofound Blue Mountains Biodiversity Project, a non profit environmental organization fighting to protect old growth forests and roadless areas in Oregon. Among other things, Coulter has worked to foster diversity through her activism, fighting to make movem ents more inclusive and to bring awareness to forms of social and environmental injustice. More than anything else, Coulter’s spiritual connection to nature has kept her engaged in activism and fighting for the protection and preservation of earth’s specie s biodiversity and ecosystem viability. My spiritual connection to nature keeps me centered and grounded and enables me to keep fighting for nature. There is even a term for that now, called forest bathing, where, when you spend significant time in nature , you are changed and you are just much more centered and grounded beyond your own ego. I don’t want to give that up. It has been huge for me. Coulter’s Early Life: A Stirring Inside Karen Coulter was born in Portland, Oregon on 22 April 1958 to Walter and Carolyn Coulter. Carolyn was born to a very traditional family in New York descended from Europeans and the “daughters of the Mayflower .” After being born in New York, Walter grew up in the U.S. Virgin Islands, the apparent descendant of slaves and sla ve owners. His grandmother, who was likely a slave, was referred to as a “Haitian peasant woman that an Irish planter married .”

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279 Coulter suggested that the marriage was probably not consensual. Carolyn first met Walter, briefly, in New York, but, as Coulter said, did not even like him at the time. Carolyn was raised as a Methodist, and as a young woman was expected to find an occupation befitting a lady, either as a nurse, a teacher, or a missionary. She decided to become a missionary and was sent to Puerto Rico. Walter and Carolyn met again while she was living in Puerto Rico and he was living in the Virgin Islands and had, what Coulter called, “a tropical romance .” T he two got married, though, as Coulter said, Carolyn “was conflicted about it as she walked down the aisle .” Coulter said, “my mother told me that she knew it was a mistake as she was walking down the aisle to get married .” She did it anyway, which, according to Coulter, was indicative of her passive personality. Coulter’s parents were very dif ferent people: Walter was an eccentric intellectual who worked as a Freudian psychoanalyst and was relatively reclusive while Carolyn was very social . The two divorced when Coulter was only five years old, and Carolyn got custody. From that point forward, Coulter was only allowed to see her father six times a year, for a maximum of two weeks at a time. Coulter regretted the arrangement because she “really loved her father” and she was more like him, intellectually, than her mother. After the divorce, Caroly n took Coulter back to New York, where her family was from. While living in New York, Carolyn met Ernest Cuno who she married when Coulter was eight years old. Along with her new family, which included four new, older, stepbrothers, Coulter moved to a suburban house on the outskirts of Reno, Nevada. Walter remarried, and had two other children, but he remained involved with and supportive of Coulter throughout her childhood. She said that he always gave her the best he could when she went to stay with him at his home in southern California. When Walter

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280 discovered that she loved horses, for instance, he made a leasing arrangement with a stable in Topanga Canyon so that she could have free reign with a particular horse during her stay and he also provided En glish riding lessons which he arranged when she was eight. When he learned that she was interested in nature, he introduced her to classical music that he believed “mimicked nature” like Debussy and Ralph von Williams, and took her to see symphonies, chamber music, and plays. Carolyn, who was not affluent, was “resentful” of Walter’s ability to give Coulter those things when she could not and was “very careful to keep [ Coulter ] from being spoiled.” Coulter described her mother as a stable influence and good parent but also admitted that she was “very different” from her mother “in terms of personality .” In terms of religious education, Coulter grew up in households that were primarily agnostic and atheist. Walter attended Catholic school in his youth but was not religious later in his life. Her stepfather, Cuno, was agnostic, and none of his children were religious, save for her youngest stepbrother, who became a Mormon missionary. Despite her Methodist background, Carolyn was also not very religious. Nevertheless, when Coulter was in her early teens, Carolyn decided to become a Unitarian. She invited Coulter along to meetings with her, and Coulter went willingly, interested in the diversity of life experiences and belief systems. Carolyn also facilitated a visit to a Buddhist meeting, which Coulter was intrigued by, but which she could not understand because they were in a different language. Later, while attending Reed College in Oregon, Coulter was also exposed to Catholicism and read about T aoism. Though she appreciated T aoist philosophy, and said it was “the closest I have ever come to being religious ,” Coulter also explained that:

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281 None of that made any dent in me becoming religious. I’ve neve r been religious at all. To me, religion is what other people tell you that you are supposed to be based on a history dogma, and that is not how I think. Even at an early age, Coulter said that she “intuitively rejected the social milieu” and intimated that she felt a sense of disease when confronted with societal norms. She described herself as a socially disconnected child who was not popular in school and did not relate well to her family or their “keeping up with the Jones’” suburban lifestyle. In stead, Coulter related to nature. “I escaped the house as much as possibleand went hiking,” she recalled. She described with fondness the Nevada hills, and referred to them multiple times in our interviews as “my hills ,” which showed her connection to pla ce and intimate relationship with the landscape. “[I spent] a lot of time in nature, getting very attached to that, and that becoming part of my soul .” The endless wild ranges and mountains offered ample space for Coulter to roam. During her explorations, Coulter had a number of meaningful encounters with wild animals during her youth that she described as “moving.” In one instance, Coulter recalled following a coyote through the hills at a distance of about six feet. “It would look over its shoulder at me every once in a while. In other words, we were walking along as if we were walking together for a while .” Those close encounters, Coulter said, have continued throughout her adult life. She described, in one scenario, a close encounter in Glacier National Park, where she “stared a mountain goat in the eye at a distance of two feet .” Coulter who had been photographing the goat, climbed up a chimney in the rock to get closer to it, and said: Sure enough, the mountain goat got curious, came to the far end of the cleft where my head was only two feet below on the other side and gave me a full body view, just kind of looking at me curiously. And then it walked over to right above me, turned its head sideways, and we stared each other in the eyes. It was the mo st serene encounter imaginable.

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282 Bron Taylor has found such experiences, which lead to profound recognition of agency and value in non human animals, to be common among ardent environmentalists, aptly labeling them “eyeto eye epiphanies” (Taylor 2010, 24) .3 Marc Bekoff (2007) and many others have also described these eye to eye encounters with nonhuman animals. In two other close encounters, Coulter described a coyote and a black bear both of which walked toward her “daydreaming.” She explained that both were looking ahead of themselves but were not seeing her while they were walking, the same as how people who are daydreaming fail to notice things around them. In the case of the black bear, Coulter said, “it didn’t see my truck. I was sitting in my truck and it was walking right toward my open window .” In other instances, Coulter said, she has felt that animals reveal themselves to her. I’ve had experiences that make me think that sometimes animals come out for me to see them, if I am focused enough. Sometimes, if I am not seeing a lot of wildlife in a particular environment I will just sit down on a log or something and wait. And then they come out. And, of course, there are different reasons that could be happening. I’m being quiet. So, there is that for sure, but there are times where I am just actively thinking “ I know you’re here ” and I have an impression of a particular animal, and then I see it. Coulter went on to explain how formative those close animal encounters have be en in her life: “It’s the things like that that make me relate to the wild. It’s like wow, you’re like me. It’s not a big difference. We are just animal s .” As a child, Coulter also cared for racoons that she kept as pets. “I would go out and sleep in the big cage that my stepfather made for me for the two racoons and spend the night with them and have them walk all over me ,” she recalled. Eventually, all of the racoons ended up in the wild, including the single kit Coulter had kept in hopes of raising. 3 Taylor ( 2010 , 24 ) is the first use of the term (and the e.g. with Bekoff) but there are other examples scattered throughout the text.

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283 I let him go. By that point it was like this isn’t fair, this isn’t good, because they are, at heart, wild animals. So, I had that connection and then [realized] that these are not pets. There is something very special about them. They need to be wild. Even as a young child, Coulter understood the importance of allowing other species to survive and flourish in their natural habitats. In 2020, she emphasized how that childhood revelation has stuck with her and developed: “we all need to be wild, and we all need to recognize we are animals .” Despite the many positive experiences that Coulter had in the Nevada hills in her youth, there were also several encounters that were dangerous, and left her with a lasting sense of disease that still afflicted her when w e spoke in 2020. Notably, none of those dangerous encounters were with non human animals. Coulter conveyed that there were at least five occasions as either a child or young adult when she had been hiking or walking and felt aware of the threat of rape or assault. In one instance, Coulter, who was still a child at the time, was hiking alone through a narrow gully in the rocks when she heard someone following her at a distance. “My senses are very attuned when I am out in nature ,” she said. Sensing danger, s he climbed out of the gully and began walking backward up the road over the gully until she could see the person who was following her. “This guy [was] listening and picking his way after me and so then I went fast up the mountain up to the peak, and start ed following him,” mirroring his movements on the road below. Curious about why he was following her, Coulter got out of sight for a while, following the ridgeline that looped away from the road. He continued to pursue her along the road. “I saw him come b elow me and something intuitively told him to look up. He saw me and I was just silent, and he took that as assent and started climbing up after me .” Pursued, like prey, Coulter “zipped over the top of the ridge” and escaped the man she perceived as a pred ator.

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284 Though she managed to avoid harm during this and other situations in which she felt targeted and pursued by men while alone in the hills, these experiences left her with a lasting sense of disease. “That kind of tempered my relationship with men,” she said, though she went on to clarify that it was not with all men. “It has affected my relations with and my impressions of strangers. I’m very careful about strangers .” In 2020, Coulter was still coping with and managing that sense of disease. Her ef forts to do so included taking B lues dance lessons on “the close embrace” which she voluntarily signed up for to help her manage her “reticence around strangers .” Despite those experiences, which for her were dangerous and left a resounding negative impa ct, Coulter had many other positive formative experiences as a child, some of which carried over into her adult life and influenced her future career. She remembered fondly, for instance, leafing through the classical art portfolios at her mothers’ home an d said that she “related to” the impressionistic art contained therein. She also said that Carolyn, who had been educated at Syracuse University , had floor to ceiling bookshelves of classic novels and philosophy books in the home, which she read many of in her youth. “Originally, I wanted to be an artist, like a visual artist, drawing, and a novelist ,” Coulter said. At age eleven, Coulter’s love of reading led her to Marguerite Henry’s novel Mustang: Wild Spirit of the West, a retelling of Wild Horse Anni e’s fight to save wild Mustangs from extinction (Henry 1966).4 Because she related to the book, her mother decided to take her to a book signing and presentation by Wild Horse Annie. “I walked up to have my book signed and 4 Velma Bronn Johnston (1912 – 1977), also known as “Wild Horse Annie” was an animal welfare activist who, beginning in 1950, led a public campaign to end the inhumane treatment and systematic eradication of wild mustangs and burros from public lands. After a lengthy battle in her home state of Nevada, Johnston went on to fight for protection at the federal level. Congress passed the “Wild an d Free Roaming Horses and Burros Act” in 1971, which prohibited the capture or injury of mustangs and burros.

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285 to have a conversation with her and sheconscripted me into her children’s campaign to save the horses .” In 1969, at only eleven years old, Coulter testified in front of the Nevada State Legislature on behalf of the Wild Free Roaming Horse s and B urros Protection Act. In 2020, Coulter said that she still weighs in on issues of wild horse management from time to time. Carolyn also took “occasional spurts of being engaged” in environmental activism, as for example when Coulter was twelve and her mother wrote a play called “Alice in Blu nder land” for the first Earth Day. The play, as Coulter recalled, included messages about avoiding phosphates in detergents, and she played the part of Alice. On another occasion, Carolyn also made costumes for a fashion show, which were made entirely from recycled and recyclable materials, including a dress made entirely out of pop tops, which “was kind of sexy looking.” Coulter acknowledged that her “mother influenced [her] in very positive ways toward activism” and has “always been supportive of [her] activi sm .” But Coulter also made it clear that she did not become an activist because of her mother, or because of any other outside influence; rather, she understood her activism as something innate in her. I think a lot of times people assume that there was some kind of outside influence that made people into activists. I don’t think that’s necessarily true. I think it’s a stirring inside connected to particular issues. Like something that your life exposes you to and then you care very much about it and are passionate enough about it to act. And for me that was nature. That’s what I cared about. I cared about wildness and nature. For Coulter, that “stirring inside” would go on to dramatically influence her life and future work, through which she devoted her self to the protection and preservation of wild nature. “Not in MY hills you don’t!” – The Fight Against the MX When Coulter was about fifteen, her biological father suffered from a massive manic , depressive breakdown and divorced his second wife . Before his breakdown, Walter had a good

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286 career as a clinical psychoanalyst and was relatively wealthy. He and his wife and their two children lived in the Pacific Palisades in Los Angeles, California, in an apartment not far from the ocean. When he was arrested for sleeping in his car in San Francisco after his breakdown, Coulter said that “he suddenly realized that the government was devoting way too much money to the arms race instead of social welfare.” Coulter further explained that the breakdownled Walter to some “rather liberating epiphanies” about capitalism and the U.S. nuclear policies that influenced the rest of his life. “He purposefully made his life very simple after that ,” Coulter said, an example that she “took seriously .” Walter received social security benefits for being totally disabled by manic depression and bipolar disorder. Coulter explained that, in part, he lived simply in an attempt to save what little income he could to put toward renting an office space and printing up business cards to try and re start his practice, which “continually failed because he was so out of date by that point .” “He had a very strong drive to serve people through psychotherapy, and contined to try to do so for a while .” Coulter would only see her father about twice more , though they did stay in touch until he died in the early 2000s. Before he die d, Walter lived in a motel room in Palm Springs, California. H e had very few possessions apart from a hot plate, a black and white T.V., and a twelve speed, fire engenie red bicycle, which he used for his job, working for the city watering palm trees in Palm Springs , California . Coulter spoke to the way that his decision to live simply really influenced her . When we spoke, she said that alt hough she was already li ving simply by that time, she had not previously considered how his decision to live simply might have also influenced her. “I have lived a very simple life since then too ,” she remarked. In 1974, when Coulter was sixteen, her mother sent her to live with her aunt, uncle, and cousin for a year on their farm in New York. Coulter described it as a “good decision” on the

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287 part of her mother who took action because of “inappropriate behavior” her stepfather had directed toward her. She declined to go into detai l, the incident was serious enough that Carolyn divorced Cuno, and Coulter never saw the “patriarchal dictator” again. While she was in New York, Coulter enjoyed her time on the farm working with the animals and even joined the youth organization 4H. She remained there for one school year, and then returned to her mother’s home in Nevada. In the fall of 1976, Coulter enrolled in the University of Wisconsin, Oshkosh, a decision which she described as a “mistake.” In part she “wanted to get as far away fro m Nevada as possible” but also wanted to go to a school that would be a serious place for academics. When she arrived, however, she was disappointed in the party campus environment and the low intellectual caliber of the courses. She remained at Oshkosh fo r one school year, and then took the advice of her father and enrolled in Reed College in Portland, Oregon in the fall of 1977 and would go on to graduate in the spring of 1981. Sometime during her first two years at Reed, Coulter attended her fist civil d isobedience training for a protest at the Trojan Nuclear Plant. “I didn’t actually go to the action, which I now feel guilty about, because I thought it was more important to graduate and finish my school before I got arrested,” Coulter said. In 1980, howe ver, that all changed. Walking through Eliot Hall, Coulter noticed a newspaper article in the main display case about the MX Missile being planned for Nevada and Utah. “I read [the newspaper], and I looked at the little map about what this would cover, and I was appalled. Not in my backyard! Strong impulse. Like, ‘NO! Not in MY hills you don’t!’ .” The MX was designed as an intercontinental ballistic missile (ICBM) and as a multiple independently targetable reentry vehicle (MIRV) meaning that it could carry several different warheads, each of which could be aimed at different targets. Moreover, the MX was designed as

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288 a mobile missile system, meaning that it could be deployed from a mobile transporter, thus making it harder for the Soviet Union to target. De velopment of the MX initially began in 1971 and was in full swing by 1974. One of the primary concerns about the MX was focused on its mobility and the environmental concerns related to destruction of western landscapes that would be necessary for building the tracks needed for its transportation. When President Jimmy Carter ordered production to begin on the MX in 1979, controversy broke out across the country about nuclear weapons production in the United States (Glass 1993).5 In the summer of 1980 Coulter returned to Nevada to work and procured a job with the Census Bureau. One of her colleagues at the Bureau “picked up on the fact that [she] was just really infuriated about the MX Missile” and told her about a meeting that would take place arranged by an organization called Nevadans Opposed to the MX Missile. Coulter eagerly took down the details for the meeting and decided to attend. During the meeting, she recalled, they passed around an application for an internship with Ame rican Friends Service Committee (AFSC), a Quaker organization that “promotes lasting peace with justice, as a practical expression of faith in action” (“A merican Friends Service Committee ” n.d.).6 She took a copy of the application, filled it out, and submitted it, never expecting to hear anything back. “I had no experience as an activist, I wasn’t even firmly anti nuclear per se. I didn’t really know much about it. I was just scared of nuclear war .” At that time, Coulter said, most of her limited knowledge about nuclear weapons and nuclear war was influenced by the news, and by her 5 For a detailed historical account of the controversy around the MX missile, see Glass ( 1993). For a good overview of the beginning of the MX mi ssile, see Firmage ( 2004, 20 2 6). 6 For archival records about AFSC involvement in efforts to stop the MX missile and other anti nuclear campaigns see “A merican Friends Service Committee Records” ( n.d. ).

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289 father, who “believed that the nuclear weapons numbers game , as it was played out in the media , was real .” Coulter was the only internship applicant from Nevada. The AFSC, she said, thought it was very important to hire someone from Nevada for the position; Coulter got the job. AFSC invited her to come out to a training program in San Francisco to receive background in formation. “ They had me sit in front of files of anti nuclear information and read them. And just becoming educated was enough to make me anti nuclear which was important to them of course .” Coulter further explained that they talked with her about what it mean t to bear witness nonviolently and asked what she thought about that. “ I said something to the effect of ‘sounds good to me’ a nd they hired me, which was a huge leap of faith on their part, I think.” AFSC sent Coulter to work with the Great Basin MX Alliance, working as support for the movement under the direction of Joe Griggs and Jo Anne Garrett , who were Baker, Nevada citizens and leaders of the Alliance.7 With the permission of Reed College, Coulter took a semester off from school, put her under graduate thesis on hold, and went to work with the Alliance for six months. “This was an amazing launch into activism for me ,” she recalled. “The Great Basin MX Alliance was an inspirational alliance. It was non hierarchical, it was not catering to a mains tream or centrist bottom line like coalitions do and everyone involved in it was completely autonomous .” When Coulter began working for the Alliance in 1980, she said that “something like 70 percent of Nevadans polled were supportive of the MX Missile b ecause the idea was that it would bring jobs to the area .” Through her activist work with the AFSC, she and others began to 7 For more information on Joe Griggs and Jo Anne Ga rret, including how they got involved in the activism against the MX, see Glass ( 1993 , 11 1 2 , 32 3 3 ).

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290 change the perspectives of the locals. She spoke to some of the tactics the Great Basin MX Alliance employed to change public opinion. These included, among other things, putting stacks of flyers at the end of grocery store aisles where people packed their groceries , with neutral information about the MX Missile that posed critical questions of Nevada citizens such as “what will you do as a rancher when your ranch hands leave to work on the MX missile project” and “what will you do when there are higher rates of drug and alcohol use because of stress from the MX project .” Coulter indicated that she believes this type of action significantly contributed to people becoming opposed to the MX Missile. Coulter also spoke to the diverse groups of people that were engaged with the Alliance and noted that there was a range of people from priests to Shoshone people, to housewives from Baker an d Elko that joined the meetings. She also noted the inspiring local activism that citizens engaged in, including efforts of the local ranchers and the Shoshone. She recalled, for instance, a time where she went with Griggs , who was speaking with ranchers a bout how nuclear waste runoff from the project might affect the underground reservoir that they used as a water source, and the ranchers sent their sons to the meeting . They were sitting out in the middle of nowhere on the tailgates of their trucks kicking the dirt the whole time [Griggs] talked to themand then each one of them kind of said “ I’ll go tell pop ” . We didn’t know if anything would come of it and a short time later numerous test holes that the Air Force dug for water were filled with concrete. So, they just took action themselves! It was very exciting for me. The Shoshone people also took action into their own hands in protest of the proposed missile developm ent. [They] bought an old missile casing and a flatbed truck and erected the old missile casing so it looked like it was pointing so they could launch it. One of the media spins was to address to the U.S. government that “we don’t need your mobile missile system! We have our own! ” .

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291 In addition to their efforts, housewives from Elko, Nevada hosted a bake sale to support activists working against the MX. Coulter expressed the media’s awe at the effort, saying “housewivesare not known for doing things like that” and clarified that she “wasn’t surprised that housewives could be activists, but the media was .” After working in Nevada with the Alliance during the fall, AFSC sent Coulter to the San Francisco Bay area to help plan a speaking tour for early spring 1981. With AFSC help, Coulter organized the tour which focused on environmental , social, and nuclear war impacts of the MX missile.8 The tour involved, among other individuals whom Coulter could not recall, a Northern Paiute activist named Debra Harry9 w ho discussed impacts of the MX on indigenous people, and a rancher from Utah named Cecil Garland who addressed environmental impacts of the MX. There were a number of speaking tour stops , including, for instance , at the Sierra Club office in San Francisco . Reflecting on her time with AFSC in 2020, Coulter spoke very highly of the organization, and praised the supportive and inclusive environment the organization fostered. I really admire AFSC for taking young people into increasingly sophisticated positio ns based on their intuitive sense of who they were. they showed tremendous faith in whatever they saw in me at the time. And as it turned out, maybe that was good intuition on their part, because I did go on and do activism for the rest of my life. [They were] very supportive. It was very diverse for the time. I was exposed to their spirituality also, which was interesting. Moreover, Coulter said that the Alliance helped to educate her about social and economic impacts and diversity and become more hol istic in her thinking as an activist. “I am forever indebted to the Great Basin MX Alliance for that ,” she said. After she finished working on the speaking tour, Coulter returned to Reed College to complete her senior thesis. 8 Coulter was unable to provide more than minor details on her memory of the speaking tour, and I was unable to find any archival record of the event bas ed on the details she provided. 9 In 2021, Harry was a professor in the Department of Gender, Race, and Identity at the University of Nevada, Reno.

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292 A Green Light for Activism C oulter graduated with her degree as a double major in English and Psychology in Spring 1981. Despite her waning interest in the subject matter she had studied, she finished with an A on her undergraduate thesis and was surprised to learn that she had made the Dean’s list while a student . Soon thereafter, she was hired for a sixmonth internship with Citizen Alert, an anti nuclear organization based in Reno, Nevada. While working for Citizen Alert, Coulter conducted outreach in eastern Nevada and organized another speaking tour. She also wrote an article for the Pacific Liberation News Service, which discussed “broken arrow accidents,” nuclear weapons accidents not reported to the mainstream media.10 After the internship ended in fall 1981, Coulter returned to Portland and began to volunteer and participate in activism around the city. She canvas s ed for a number of local environmental groups including Oregon Fair Share, a public interest organization founded in 1980 that promoted economic and social equality. 11 She was also briefly involved with a citizen group called the Portland Alliance, which tried and failed to establish a “ shadow government ” organized and run by citezens in Portland. Coulter explained that the purpose of the group was to shadow the city council’s actions and make objections or suggestions based on the Alliance’s collaborative efforts. It was effectively like a “cop watch group, only a city council watch g roup ,” Coulter said. Coulter also worked with Oregon State Public Interest Research Group (OSPIRG), an investigative, grassroots public organization that advanced the special interests of citizens (see “OSPRIG” n.d.). 10 Liberation News Service was an underground newspaper founded in 1967 primarily as a means of disseminating information about the Vietnam War. For more on the history of Liberation News Service see Young ( 1990). 11 For more about Oregon Fair Share, see “UniteOregon” ( n.d. ).

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293 She was only involved with those volunteer organizations for a brief time before she decided she needed a change of scenery and left for the east coast. She took the Gray Rabbit, a bus equipped with mattress es for sleeping where “a lot of people took acid,” across the country to Lex ington, Kentucky. She planned to stay with a friend from Reed College whose familyowned racehorses and ask for a job helping to care for them. When she arrived, Coulter was surprised to find a mansion complete with black servants. Coulter said that she wa s “very unnerved by the racial relationship with the servants” after she learned that she was not supposed to talk with them. When the family asked her for a six month commitment working with the horses, she decided against it and left because she wanted t o join the Peace Corps and go to Nepal . Coulter ended up in Massachusetts and worked briefly for the Massachusetts State Public Interest Research Group (MASSPRIG) . She did not like the social dynamics in Massachusetts and remembered especially the blatant sexism expressed toward women there. Coulter returned to Portland as soon as she earned enough money for the return trip. In May 1982, Coulter made her way to Alaska to work at the salmon fisheries. She explained that it was common for young people at the time to spend the summer season working at the fisheries because it was a good way to earn a lot of money quickly. Coulter, who had a “fantasy of romantic imagery about traveling to Nepal ,” made the journey to Alaska for the summer to earn money to go to Nepal . Unfortunately, she “got screwed over” by one of the fish processing companies that refused to pay her and the other workers . In September, Coulter returned to Portland depressed and concerned about the impending decision on the MX missile. She de cided to wait out the decision on her mother’s houseboat on the Willamette River Slough and recalled waiting to hear the news: I was thinking, oh god, what’s going to happen? Here was my first stint of activism against the MX Missile and I had no idea what Reagan would come up

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294 with in response. I watched the TV news in which he abandoned the landbased system [that had been planned] for the MX Missile in Nevada and Utah, and I couldn’t believe it! Holy shit! We won! The decision, which came in October 1982, may have saved Nevada and Utah from the mobile missile system, but it did not eliminate the target on western landscapes . Instead, the military installed thirty six of the Peacekeeper missiles in Minutemen silos across the mid western United States, pu tting Russian targets on a number of other western states (Glass 1993 , 80). However, for Coulter, the NIMBY victory “[was] sort of like my green light for continuing to be an activist. That was a fairly crucial moment [for me], to see that we could actually accomplish something .” During the Spring of 1983, Coulter continued volunteering for different organizations around Portland. She returned to Alaska in May to work at the salmon fisheries, and successfully earned $1500 that summer, which was enough money to get her to Nepal. In October 1983, Coulter went to Nepal for a month and a half. She trekked primarily on her own and at points with other European travelers. She also said that she travelled for a short stint with a local Sherpa, until it became cle ar that he wanted to “marry her passport.” She described the trip as “amazing” and said that the fantasy of romantic imagery she had imagined ended up being absolutely true. Upon her return from Nepal in 1983, Coulter quickly returned to activism, and during the six months that followed, she became involved in several different organizations with an anti nuclear focus.

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295 Stopping the “White Death Trains” In the winter of 1983, Coulter briefly got involved with Forelaws on Board (FOB), an organization that opposed the Trojan Nuclear Plant in Columbia County, Oregon.12 The group was one of the three main opponents to the plant, along with the Trojan Decommissioning Alliance and Mothers for Peace. FOB leveled a number of lawsuits against Pacific Gas & Electri c Company (PG&E) between 1977 and 1992, when the plant was officially shut down. Coulter met and worked closely with Lloyd Marbet, a founder and director of FOB. Her primary role was to coordinate volunteers for a ballot measure against radioactive nuclear waste dumping because the waste pond from the Tel edyne Wah Chang Plant was seeping waste into the Willamette River. Around the same time, Coulter began working with Northwest Action for Disarmament (NWAD), a nonviolent civil disobedience group acting against nuclear weapons production in Portland. She spoke to the strengths of the consensus based organization and attributed much of what she knows about nonviolence training to NWAD. Some of the most impo rtant actions Coulter participated in with NWAD were blockades of the White Train. Beginning in the 1950s, the United States started transporting nuclear weapons across the country via “White Trains .” These trains “looked entirely ordinary ,” Brianna Nofil wrote in 2018, “except formultiple heavily armed boxcars[with] DOE guards” armed with rifles, machine guns, or grenade launchers (Nofil 2018). The trains were also often painted white and were extremely slow moving, maxing out at approximately thirty fi ve miles per hour. The national hub for the United States nuclear trains and “the nation’s only assembly point for nuclear weapons” was, and remained as of 2021, the Pantex Plant located just outside of 12 For more on the history of the Trojan Nuclear Power Plant see Wollner ( 2018).

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296 Amarillo, Texas (Nofil 2018). One of the most common routes for White Trains carrying nuclear weapons was between the Pantex Plant and the Trident submarine base located in Puget Sound, in Bangor, Washington (Nofil 2018). In early 1984, NWAD plan ned a blockade to stop the White Train in Portland which Coul ter was involved in as part of the consensus based organization . They were in communication with organizers from Ground Zero Center for Nonviolent Action, who were, at the time, monitoring the White Trains. Ground Zero was a Catholic Worker affiliated orga nization that was founded by James and Shelley Douglass in 1975 to stop the Trident Submarine and Missile System in Washington.13 In addition to their political resistance, the Douglass’s were committed to nonviolence and confronting racism, sexism, and c onsumerism (Shatterly 2020). In the mid 1980s they began to turn their attention to weapons transport and were tracking the movement of White Trains across the nation. They contacted local organizations and peace groups and helped to facilitate prayer vigi ls and nonviolent direct actions around the country by providing information about the trains’ routes (Nofil 2018). Coulter noted that NWAD knew the trains’ path because of Ground Zero. They also knew that no White Train blockade had been successful in sto pping the train to that point. “Every time before , along the train route , people had jumped off the tracks at the last minute because it appeared the train would not stop, so the train operators were used to people not staying on the tracks,” Coulter expla ined. The other risks associated with blockading the train included being arrested and shot. 13 For a s hort biography of James Douglass see Shatterly ( 2020); for more about Shelley Douglass, including her work during the Civil Rights movement, see Doughton ( 2003); for more information on Ground Zero, see “ Ground Zero Center for Nonviolent Action ” ( n.d. ); for an interview with Jim Douglass about his anti nuclear work, including on the White Trains see Douglass ( 2015).

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297 On 24 February 1984, Coulter and other NWAD protesters planned to blockade the White Train in Portland, Oregon. Coulter recalled that there were about a hundred a nd fifty people present at the protest, and fifty of those willing to be arrested. Coulter described her own experience from that blockade: “I was in one of the groups right in front. The train came and it came within inches of us before it stopped. That was really profound for me. I was terrified .” In our interview, I could hear the lingering trepidation in her voice and in the nervous laughter that followed her account of the action. This blockade was the first time a White Train had been successfully st opped. The blockade delayed the train from reaching its destination at the Kelso train depot for approximately two and a half hours (The Daily News and AP 1984). Coulter was arrested for the first time during that action, along with thirty two other bloc kaders (see also The Daily News and AP 1984). All the protesters were released when the railroad company, Union Pacific, declined to press charges (“Peace organizations keeping watch on white train” 1984). Overwhelmed and struggling to pay rent, Coulter m et with Lloyd Marbet, the director of FOB at a coffee shop in downtown Portland in spring 1984. At the time, Coulter felt that she was not effective enough in her position to benefit the organization and did not think she was recruiting enough volunteers. Coulter said that d uring the meeting, Marbet said, “you must have faith to do this work.” Coulter recommended someone to replace her and left her position with FOB that day. In 2021, she spoke to the outstanding amount of respect that she still holds for M arbet, whom she described as a “mentor” and for the work that he and others involved in the organization did to help shut down the Trojan Nuclear Power Plant. After leaving FOB, Coulter sought a new canvass to work for where she could earn enough money to support herself but still be engaged in environmental activist work. Not long

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298 thereafter, she met George Callies, the Canvass Director for Greenpeace, the international organization founded in 1971 and known for their direct action protests, firstly again st nuclear proliferation but soon foremost for environmental protection, broadly understood (see “ Greenpeace” n.d.). One thing that attracted me to Greenpeace was that they were against nuclear weapons and power, they were against toxins, and for protecti ng endangered species and they do direct action. It kind of tied my world together, my activist interests. Coulter began working as a canvasser for Greenpeace and said that Callies taught her more about canvassing than any organization she had worked wit h previously. He also taught Coulter how to pilot a Zodiac, a small inflatable boat used regularly by Greenpeace during campaigns to approach larger vessels during protest actions. 1984 was a particularly busy year for Coulter as far as activism was conc erned, so busy in fact that when we spoke in 2020 and 2021, she had trouble remembering the order in which many of the actions she participated in occurred. In addition to her continuing work with NWAD, she quickly became more involved with Greenpeace and began to join Callies on campaigns. Coulter recalled two actions, in particular, where she piloted one of the Zodiac boats. In one action, Greenpeace campaigners aimed to stop a boat coming up the Columbia River (between Washington and Oregon) that was car rying whale meat from Norway. Coulter piloted her own Zodiac during the action but realized part way to the ship that another boat had disappeared, so she went back to check and make sure everyone was safe. By the time she arrived at the ship, it had alrea dy docked. In another action, however, Coulter found herself in a much more dangerous situation. The aim of the campaign was to stop an ocean bound ship from doing seismic testing along the Oregon coast for oil and gas development. Callies and Coulter we re in a Zodiac at the front of

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299 the ship, protecting a diver who was clinging to the hull in an attempt to force it to stop. Despite the raised diving flag, t he captain proceeded anyway , putting the diver at extreme risk of being pulled underneath the moving ship and into the propellers . “It was a very risky situation. The ship was going about eight knots and ignoring the diving flag and the fact that there was a protest all around them and continued moving.” Coulter and Callies had to stay close to the hull to protect the diver. While th ey were trying to do so, the sherrif’s patrol boat began to shoot water cannons at the Zodiac . In response, Callies expertly maneuvered the craft while simultaneously being blasted with water cannons and pursued by the patrol boat . Coulter and Callies even tually managed to get the diver back on board safely. When the police finally caught up to them, the ship’s captain declined to press charges. “Greenpeace gets treated kind of specially ,” Coulter remarked. Because [Greenpeace is] so good with media, quite often they don’t press charges, even when you are in the boat which is blocking their ship. There were a lot of times with Greenpeace where, if it were a different group without so much money and media savvy, I definitely would have gotten arrested. About six months after beginning her work with Greenpeace, Coulter also became romantically involved with Callies. Later that year, on 27 July 1984, Coulter participated in a second White Train blockade with NWAD, this time near Vancouver, Washington.14 Coulter said that more than two hundred people gathered to blockade the White Train, with fifty of those willing to be arrested. Newspaper records from 27 and 28 July indicate that her recollection was good: the reports 14 When she first described her participation in the White Train blockades, Coulter told me about two different blockades, and could not re member the exact dates of when they took place, though she described the events and arrests in ample detail. Through the details she provided in her recollection and the archival research that I conducted it became apparent to me that she was describing details from three separate blockades rather than two. I sought to clarify this with her in later interviews, and Coulter acknowledged that it was possible that she misremembered the number of blockades she participated in and agreed that based on the detail s she provided and the reports I found, that she must have been at all three blockades.

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300 estimated that between 170 to 200 pr otestors were present and documented 49 arrests (“Demonstrators manage to stop white train again” 1984; “Demonstrators halt white train” 1984). Coulter said that they positioned people along the track before the blockaders to flag the train down before it got to them. She also noted that among those blockaders present who agreed to sit on the tracks were a number of individuals from a Christian affinity group that asked not to be removed from the tracks, no matter what, and were willing to martyr themselves on the tracks. Among those willing to martyr themselves for peace was a wheelchair bound individual, who insisted that he should not be removed from the tracks under any circumstances (see also “Demonstrators manage to stop white train again” 1984). “They were completely serious, so that strengthened the resolve quite a bit to stay on the tracks,” Coulter said. When it did stop, the Union Pacific train security were the only cops there and were greatly outnumbered by the protestors. They would take us one at a time off the tracks. There is an advantage to being a woman sometimes. They would put us off to one side and then go back to get someone else. So, every time they put me to one side and went back to pull someone else off the tracks, I went back and sat on the tracks at the end of the line again. Finally, a woman Union Pacific security person took me by the arm and started walking me down the tracks and away from the trainand saying, “ why are you doing this? ” . And I stopped, and I looked back at the train and started crying and told her about what would happen if this train went through, and she dropped my arm, and I ran back and sat on the tracks . ( S ee also “Demonstrators Manage to Stop White Train Again” 1984) Before she was arrested, Coulter rec alled going back to sit on the tracks eighteen times. Her defiance, along with the other protesters ’ , “ halted the train for an hour and a half, from 11:25 am until 1:05 pm ” (see “Demonstrators halt white train” 1984). Coulter was arrested along with other members of NWAD and members of Ground Zero, including Jim Douglass (see “Demonstrators Manage to Stop White Train Again” 1984).

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301 In early 1985, Coulter was part of the organizing team for another White Train blockade. She was, at the time, in training with NWAD to become a non violence trainer, and in preparation for the blockade, she helped to facilitate a consensus meeting of over 600 people to plan the action. NWAD held the meeting in the basement of a church where they had a large open space which could accommodate the group. Coulter described the meeting in our interview, detailing the rigorous process needed to reach full consensus about how the blockade would happen. [We] came to complete consensus by having everybody be part of an affinity group, and then having the structure of a fishbowl where a representative from each affinity group would decide who their representative would be, and they would sit in a circle in the center, and everyone else would stand on the outside of the circle listening and watching, and they would talk through the decisions that needed to be made. And if it got to a point where the affinity group had not decided a particular issue then we [the facilitators] would break the whole process, send everyone back into affinity gr oups, decide that issue, and then send them back into the fishbowl to continue. And we managed to reach full consensus in something like six hours with 600 people, and completely rigorous process. It was incredible. During the meeting, one of the partici pants identified an infiltrator, a police officer who was trying to gather information about the blockade for the authorities. He was removed from the meeting peacefully , and the group designated a separate meeting for the active participants of the blocka de, or those who would risk arrest. On 22 February 1985, nearly 600 people amassed in Vancouver, Washington to blockade the White Train, according to Coulter’s recollection of the event.15 Along with the protesters, Coulter and Callies had invited Greenpeace canvassers to be present at the action. When the train came, Coulter, along with 105 other protesters occupied the tracks. Coulter was seven months 15 A newspaper article that documented the event estimated the number of protestors present to be around 400 but confirmed that 106 people were arrested (Novak 1985).

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302 pregnant at the time. The blockade was effective, and the train stopped. The police, at first, were wat ching from close by in RV’s and school busses, and later came out and began to arrest people. I was led to the waiting school busand I got up in the bus and I had a big sign that said “careful, baby inside ,” and I looked out the school bus windowand her e are all the Greenpeace canvassers standing there, looking up at me crying. And I said, “it’s ok, don’t worry, I’m used to this .” All 106 blockaders were arrested and charged with trespassing (see Novak 1985). The blockades that Coulter was involved with did, in some ways, contribute to the end of the use of White Trains to transport nuclear weapons. In a landmark ruling, a Kitsap, Washington court ruled that the 30 protestors who had been arrested for blockading the train during the 27 July 1984 protest were not guilty of trespassing, as they had been charged (see Douglass 1992, 161). Moreover, the jury determined that they would no longer prosecute White Train blockaders in Kitsap County. Though this was an important decision, Jim Douglass w rote in his 1992 book The Nonviolent Coming of God, “it was the cumulative impact of this extended community and campaign along the tracks that in fact stopped the White Train” (Douglass 1992, 161). On 6 August 1985, only six weeks after the trial and on t he fortieth anniversary of the bombing of Hiroshima, James E. Bickel, the Director of Transportation Safeguards Division of the Department of Energy issued a memorandum in which he wrote “IN VIEW OF THE GROWING ANTI NUCLEAR MOVEMENT IN THE UNITED STATES, W ITH ITS APPARENT FOCUS ON THE WHITE DEATH TRAIN, THE DEPARTMENT OF ENERGY IS IMPLEMENTING ALTERNATIVE METHODS OF DELIVERY OF WARHEADS” (capitals in the original) (see Douglass 1992, 161, 224, fn. 80).16 The “White Death Trains,” as 16 The memorandum was classified until 1990 under the Freedom of Information Act . See Douglass ( 1992 , 161).

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303 Bickel called them, stop ped running in 1987 (Nofil 2018). Since 1987, nuclear weapons have been transported within the continental U.S. on highways via Safeguards Transporters, tractor trailers equipped with security features designed by Sandia National Laboratories in consultati on with the National Nuclear Security Administration (NNSA).17 Despite the dangers associated with transportation, trains have remained one of the most common methods proposed by the U.S. Department of Energy for moving nuclear waste to temporary storage facilities and permanent repositories. Weapons and Warships In addition to the White Train blockades, Coulter also participated in a number of other anti nuclear weapons protests in the mid 1980s. In 1984, she and Callies both participated in a protest at the Precision Castparts Plant in Portland, which produced parts for MX and Cruise missiles. The blockade, Coulter remembered, was designed to keep employees from entering the plant. Coulter described the action as having an “elegant design” because the protesters used “roving” or “mobile blockades” as wave actions to block both the front and back gates. “When one group was arrested, another group would take their place .” There were approximately 150 protesters that participated in the blockade and there were police present for mob control that were mounted on horseback. The peaceful demonstration turned violent, Coulter said, when “cops stepped in with the horses and were stepping on people and they just hauled them away.” Coulter was blockading the back gate of the plant when chaos broke out: They hauled me out in sort of a flashback of the white train protest where they just pushed me aside and went back to get more people. They circled the horses with their rumps out around the people who were blocking the gate thinking that would deter people from coming back in. But I’m used to horses.so, me being young and risk taking, I walked up to the horses, patted two on the rumps with 17 For more information see N ational Nuclear Security Administration ( n.d.) ; “Office of Secure Transportation” ( 2021) and Weinstein ( 2012) .

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304 just little slaps, and they graciously moved away from me and I walked betwe en the horses and sat down again. Laughing, Coulter reflected on her own audacity during that protest and what she called the tendency to “get more risk averse as you get older .” She continued: I plopped myself down [and] at this point [the cops] are outraged at me and somebody swoops in, a cop, takes me out of there, takes me to a patty wagon, [and] puts me in a pain hold with my hands behind my back while getting the handcuffs on me. While Co ulter was being arrested, Callies was trying to rescue a woman being crushed between a car and a horse. Coulter noted that the woman was screaming, and Callies went to help push the horse off her but was grabbed by his braid by the “irate” officer and arre sted. The charge, Coulter said, was “tampering with a police animal” and several of the officers’ present testified that “he raised both fists in the air and came down on the flank of the horse in an attempt to start a riot.” Coulter spoke to what she call ed the tendency of the police to “get their story straight” with one another on how things went down, in order to back each other up and justify their actions during protests and officer involved incidents. This tendency, she suggested, still happens today, including in the Black Lives Matter movement, and is aimed at protecting the police and their interests. Fortunately, in Callies’ case, there was evidence that suggested the officers had misrepresented the incident in court. A photographer present at the protest happened to capture a photo of Callies at the flank of the horse, which showed him using all his strength to push the police horse off the woman. The judge in Callies’ trial dismissed all charges against him. In June 1984, Coulter participated i n an action with NWAD where she and other protesters blockaded the Burnside Bridge over the Willamette River in order to prevent nuclear warships from making their way to the Rose Festival, where they were generally stationed and offered tours to festival attendees. Coulter was working with a youth action group at the time

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305 which was part of NWAD called No Minor Cause (because they were all minors). The planned action was for the minor activists to occupy the bridge. Part of the reason for this was, as Coult er said, because as minors, those who chose to participate in the action would not be charged – they would be booked, and then released back to their parents. Coulter recalled that she showed up to support them the morning of the planned action, but the young blockaders were not there because they had exams. Some of us just said, okay, we will do it. And we just walked out. We had signs[and] we walked out into the middle of the bridge and blocked it from opening. Hung a banner over the side of the bridge where it opened. And that was that. That was one of those spontaneous thingslike, oh well, guess I’m doing this. Coulter was among those arrested during the blockade. In addition to her anti nuclear activism, beginning in 1984, Coulter became involved with the radical environmental group Earth First! (EF ! ). She had first learned about EF ! while working in Nevada in 1980 on the Great Basin MX Alliance: I saw the first thing Earth First! put out publicly. It was two sides, printed, black and white, whi ch was their position statement about why they decided to take a no compromise position and so forth, and how the mainstream [environmental] groups were selling us out. Coulter said that, at the time, she kept missing EF ! roadshows and meetings, and did not manage to catch up with them until four years later. When she met Callies, he was already involved with EF! and knew the only EF ! contact in Portland at the time, Mike Roselle. Coulter became quickly involved with EF ! after meeting Callies and particip ated in her first civil disobedience action with Callies, Roselle, Cathedral Forest Action Group (CFAG), and other local activists on 21 August that year. Approximately 100 protesters gathered in Terry Schrunk Park in Portland to march to the Forest Servic e headquarters and protest the cutting of old growth forests. The Forest Service had prior knowledge of the protest and the building had been locked before Coulter,

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306 Callies, and Roselle arrived and was sealed off by police by the time protesters arrived. C oulter said that along with Callies and Roselle, she: went and hung out at the back door. And someone came out and we grabbed the back door and went in and went up what we thought was probably an appropriate number of flights and then walked through the f orest service office while they were all busy doing things. [We] just charged right through, went to the balcony, and hung the banner.18 The banner they unfurled read “Stop the U.S. Forest Service/ Save Our Old Growth/ Earth First!” (Roselle 1984). Callie s and Roselle proceeded to have a tug of war with Forest Service office personnel over the banner. She explained that the action garnered good media attention for EF, and Coulter expressed her pride that they even managed to get the banner back and use it again. The banner hanging was the first EF ! action to take place in Portland. After the mid 1980s, Coulter’s anti nuclear activism began to taper off. NWAD disbanded in 1984 as the number of anti nuclear protests across the country began to decline. In part, this was precipitated by the de escalation of hostile relations between the U.S. and Soviet Union and a scaling back of the nuclear arms race in the period after 1985, when Mikhail Gorbachev became General Secretary of the Soviet Union. Coulter’s acti vism did not stop however, but rather its focus shifted as she became more involved with environmental activism focused on the protection of wild places, roadless areas, and biodiversity, eventually adding the battle against anthropogenic climate change. A Growing Sense of Dis ease On 5 May 1985, Coulter and Callies welcomed their son, Sasha, who was born in British Columbia, Canada. Coulter described her reservations about having a child when she got 18 For Mike Roselle’s account of the action see Roselle ( 1984).

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307 pregnant, citing concerns about population growth as the primary reason she “could not rationalize” the decision to h ave a child, but decided to do so anyway. The consequence was that when he was bornthey put him on my chest, and even though he was just born, he raised his head and he looked me in the eye, and it was like “ snap! ” . That’s it. I was completely bonded to him. And from that point on, if it was a question of, and still, my life or his, no question about it, I would give my own life for him. No question. So that was like bonding to women all over the world who have kids. Coulter went on to underscore the im portance of motherhood, and her understanding of the connections between motherhood, spirituality, and the earth. I think [motherhood] is connected to indigenous cultures who view the earth as mother earth, and the women’s connection to mother earth. We have to protect the life giving force, and we have to protect our current and future generations, as well as all other species and I like the way indigenous people, in North America anyway, say that. These are all our relations – not just humans. So that is my spiritual connection I think that is connected to motherhood, is just that very strong bond with creation itself, and then my not thinking about that in human terms at all. While Sasha was very small, Coulter was active behind the scenes helping with actions with both Greenpeace and EF ! Coulter clarified that to be a supporter of direct action on site is still critical to the action, even though supporters do not risk arrest. She was involved as support in several actions while Sasha was small, and even brought him with her on occasion. In April of 1986, Coulter and Callies went to Arizona to protest the Phelps Dodge Smelter Corporation, which mined copper from the Queen Mine in Chochise County, Arizona. The main concern of the action was the state legislature’s failure to sanction the corporation for releasing chemicals into the atmosphere while mining, which had contributed to a significant increase in acid rain. Callies and two other Greenpeace protesters climbed through a fourth floor w indow of the corporation’s headquarters to hang a banner at noon on 23 April (United Press International 1986). It read: “Arizona, once the cleanair state – now the acidrain state” (United

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308 Press International 1986). All three protesters were arrested on charges of trespassing, but George was also booked for assault, accused of pushing someone (United Press International 1986). At the time, Coulter was working as Callies’ ghost writer. Later that year, Greenpeace laid Callies off, a move which Coulter said “we [she and Callies] thought was very wrong.” She noted that “it was a huge mistake for them to lay off George. He was a tremendously successful Greenpeace campaigner .” Coulter and Callies decided that they wanted to “keep [the work] in the family” and c ontinue having an income by working with Greenpeace, so Coulter voiced her interest in the position. She replaced Callies as the acid rain campaigner and said that she got hired without Greenpeace advertising the position or doing an official search . In pa rt, this was because she was the second most knowledgeable person, apart from Callies , on the acid rain campaign, and they already knew her because she had been a canvasser and already had a Greenpeace rsum. “It was a big blow and caused a lot of personal grief between us when that happened, and it was hard for George that I just became [the acid rain campaigner] even though that’s what we wanted .” Reflecting on the experience in 2021, Coulter said “I was not George, so I brought different skills but not necessarily George’s skills. So, I don’t think I was as effective as George was in that role.” Coulter, Callies, and Sasha relocated to Seattle in 1986 to follow Coulter’s job with Greenpeace International. Callies took on the role of stay at home father while she worked and traveled, which Coulter said was a dramatic change for both of them. In 1986 and 1987, Coulter traveled internationally to meetings in Geneva, Switzerland on acid rain, Hawaii on hydrogen energy, Narobi, Kenya on ozone depletion, and Lewes, England and Amsterdam, Netherlands for Greenpeace International. She also had a seat at the table as the Greenpeace International

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309 representative at the Montreal Protocol meeting in 1986, which resulted in the first treaty to establish controls on oz one depleting chemicls in 1987. Coulter remained a canvasser with Greenpeace International for four years during which time she worked on the acid rain campaign and then went on to work on campaigns about ozone depletion and climate change. Her work did have an impact on international negotiations about these issues. In Geneva for instance, Coulter attended the international negotiations, listened to the arguments that the industry leaders were putting out to convince the rest of the delegates not to do s o much, and sat up all night writing a technical refutation based on the science which that refuted the industry position. The next day, she brought it to the meeting and passed it out to the delegates. “The industry was incensed ,” she recalled. Coulter did note some of the challenges she faced with the organization, including one instance of what she defined as “sexism” enacted against her. While she was working on ozone depletion, Coulter wrote a paper on alternatives to chlorofl ourocarbons ( CFCs) and other ozone depleting chemicals. She recalled that, “by this point, Greenpeace had become kind of beauracratic .” The y sent the paper to Amsterdam for it to be approved by Greenpeace International and “it got shelved and gathered dust .” When she put pressure on them to make sure the paper was ready for the next meeting a month later , they sent her paper to San Francisco . There the paper was reviewed by someone Coulter had hired who she said was not as experienced and did not know the s cience as well as she did. “He and another person ‘updated it’, hardly, and put their names on it and not mine . I was pretty pissed about that.” In addition to the international role she played, Coulter also coordinated direct actions for Greenpeace campaigns . Among those she coordinated was the 22 October 1987 Greenpeace banner hang on Mount Rushmore, where four climbers summitted the monument and attempted

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310 to unful a banner that said “We the People Say No to Acid Rain” across the face of the monument. Although she had instructed the climbers not to come down low enough that they could be detained by the Park Service, one of them came down early to check one of the safety ropes. A Park Service officer grabbed and detained him before the group was able t o completely unfurl the banner. Even though the banner did not go up all the way, Coulter said the action was “really big news. Greenpeace International thought it was wildly successful .” In addition to her role with Greenpeace, Coulter was active with EF! during the late 1980s. She and Callies both worked with EF ! and the Silver Fire campaign to prevent logging of old growth forests in Oregon’s Siskiyou National Forest (see Freeman 1987; “Coquille man up in tree” 1987; and “Earth First ! members beat log gers to work” 1987). Callies primarily served as a spokesperson for the movement , while Coulter continued to play a supporting role by participating in actions. Coulter was arrested, along with a friend of hers, for burning the draft Environmental Impact Statement for the Silver Fire Sale outside the Forest Service Office in Portland. In 1988, Coulter and Callies were living in Seattle but tension was growing in their partnership. By summer, Coulter decided that the two needed to split, which they did after the annual national gathering of EF ! that year, which was known as the Round River Rendezvous; the title was borrowed from an essay penned by Wildlife ecologist Aldo Leopold. The gathering that year was held at Mt. Leona, in Washington’s Kettle River Range. The two continued to be good friends and to coparent Sasha, despite the problems in their own relationship. Coulter said that Cal lies “wanted to get back together” with her, but she declined at the time because of the circumstances. “I feel kind of eternally sad that I didn’t say yes,” Coulter said. She later clarified that she was sad primarily because she still loved him, but ther e was also some guilt: that

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311 conversation was one of the last times Coulter spoke with him directly. George Callies died on 15 October 1988. The coroner ruled his death an accidental overdose. Callies had attempted suicide twice that summer (“In Memorium to George Callies” 1988). Coulter was unwilling to discuss the details of Callies’ death over the phone and said, “I have to be careful .” She explained that she felt she could be seriously threatened if we were to discuss the topic in detail and noted that she “had been [threatened] before .” She also explained to me that she received “mysterious threats ” including threats to her own life, in the past. “They will come after me again, at least they have before, and it has been a while now, so I don’t really w ant that again,” she said. Coulter did say, however, that his death came as a “tremendous shock” and was “very sudden.” Coulter was in the Greenpeace office when the news of Callies’ death came in. “I was completely grief stricken, ran down the stairs an d was sobbing when someone found me and eventually drove me to the house that we used to share .” When she arrived at the home, the police refused to let her in for over an hour and fortyfive minutes. Coulter said that she had her “own suspicions about his death” but that she “could not prove anything.” Some of those suspicions are informed by her knowledge of “extreme” and “mysterious” harassment that Callies was subjected to before his death, much of which he told her about. In an article called “In Memor ium to George Callies” published in the Earth First ! Journal ( EF! J) in December 1988, Coulter (who was not named as the author but is identifiable by the details provided therein) described Callies and documented much of the harassment that he told her about prior to his death: A highly skilled media coordinator and spokesperson, in lending his voice to the Earth First! movement [Callies’] image was that of an unstoppable force in defense of Earth. The Forest Disservice (sic) retaliated by suggesting to an other Earth First!er that George gave the group a bad name and should be kicked out.

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312 Forest Disservice officials were overheard asking each other, "What are we going to do about George Callies?" They tapped his home and searched it for incriminating eviden ce. Finally two federal agents stopped a city bus George was riding, sat down beside and behind him, and tried to intimidate him into a confession of his own or another's "guilt" in a well known spiking that took place in Oregon in 1984. Georgewas not to be taken in. He told them he had no idea what they were talking about. They threatened him with a federal indictment to be issued the following Monday, and got off the bus. George quickly dragged a lawyer to the Freddies' office [Freddies is a derogatory n eologism for Forest Service employees] to get the details on the promised indictment. It was never issued . (“In Memorium to George Callies” 1988) In addition to what she documented in that article Coulter shared with me in 2021 additional details that Cal lies told her about the harassment he endured. Among those other mysterious happenings were a phone call where no one was on the line, an incident where someone broke into Callies’ home “but didn’t take anything,” and the devastating discovery of his dog, who had been beaten nearly to death, and later died at the vet. “I did not think [his death] was a drug overdose but I cannot prove anything,” Coulter said. For three years following his death, Coulter said that she “felt like a zombie. It was very hard for me to concentrate on my work. I would think that I would see him on the street. [I was in] a very deep state of grief.” After Callies’ death, Coulter only remained with Greenpeace for a short time, until 1990. She said , “ I was beginning to feel that th ey wer e kind of putting me in the closet and taking me out of international negotiations. They did not seem to like people who were not just Greenpeace .” She also said that her work was “less effective than it was before” because of her grief . W hen she was going to be laid off, Coulter asked to be let go earlier and took unemployment. She continued to work with EF ! in a supportive role, and her primary focus shifte d to caring for Sasha, who was only three years old in 1988 when his father died. Coulter played an important role with EF! throughout the late 1980s and was arrested several times during that period for her involvement in direct actions including in the O kanagan, Washington

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313 action in 1985, the Silver Fire Campaign in Portland in 1987, and an American Express protest in 1989. Anarchists and Earth First! – A “No Fault Divorce” In June 1989, EF ! held their annual Rendezvous (RRR) in the Jemez Mountains in N ew Mexico. During the RRR, a dispute erupted which precipitated what Coulter called a “split” in the movement. Coulter described the increasing number of individuals who could be considered “anarchists” with a “broader or more holistic background” in activ ist work that had come into the movement in the years proceeding the split. Including herself among those anarchists, Coulter described what led to the fracture: We [anarchists] didn’t like the use of the U.S. flag at the RRR’s as a symbol of us. It was r epresenting us as being patriotic, and I and many others see the U.S. as genocidal and racist andcapitalist, and we did not want to be represented by the flag. Nancy Morgan, EF ! co founder Dave Foreman’s wife, was one of the individuals who always hung up her American flag during the RRR. Coulter, who was living in Seattle at the time, opened her home as a “crash house” for other EF!ers to stay at when passing through. Some EF! members were crashing with Coulter in preparation for the RRR and Coulter reca lled that another well known EF! activist wanted the anarchists to have their own flag at the meeting.19 He got a flag, he ripped it up and burned it a bit, made it disreputable looking, and then created a big placard, a big piece of cardboardand then he wrote in print across it in big letters all the reasons we rejected the American flag. When they arrived at the RRR, Morgan put her flag up, as predicted, in front of a table for media presence. Coulter said that along with Judi Bari and another person, s he went over to take it 19 In an interview in 2021, Couler asked me not to use the names of individuals involved in these events, although she had provided them during earlier interviews. She said she would prefer they not be u sed because she did not have permission to use their names.

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314 down. They did so, Coulter said, in “a respectful way, not letting it touch the ground; [we] folded it tri corner while Judi Bari was playing taps on the violin.” The three people also put up the anarchist flag on the juniper tree a nd placed the placard on the ground underneath it. According to Coulter, at this point, “Nancy Morgan just went ballistic. She was irate ,” which caused “all hell to break loose” at the meeting, which turned into a “major nonconsensus meeting .” “We were a big circle of people kind of shouting at each other and talking, and basically, people decided which side they were on at a point .” In the process, she recalled, “we did takethe tattered [flag] that we brought and stomped it into the dirt in a wild dance, raising lots of dust. People half naked and painted with various earth pigments. It was quite visual .” In the aftermath of the RRR, there was much continued debate about the goals and focus of EF! , as is evidenced through the 1 August 1989 issue of the EF! J . In a letter to the editor, “Foolish Coyote” wrote a summary of their take on the dispute: There were voices calling for a split, a “ nofault divorce ” . Earth First! is about protecting wilderness, period, they said, we don't have time for the social issues of anarchists or the rituals of woo woo ists. If that's true I suggest a name change, perhaps 'Remaining Wilderness First!'. The earth does include areas of devastation, cities and suburbs and industrial farms. And as Foreman said in his chilling speech Saturday night wilderness will continue to be abused and oppressed as long as "the State" ma intains its power. Protecting wilderness means more than filing appeals and wrecking dozers. Protecting wilderness ultimately, means revolution. And for that revolution to bring lasting change will require a movement encompassing the earth's diversity. We can still focus on wilderness without denying or ignoring related issues . (Foolish Coyote 1989) Coulter also spoke to what she saw as the “narrow perspective” of some of the members at the time, who believed the focus of EF ! should remain on protecting w ilderness and roadless areas, but who failed to “look at contributingor interwoven factors such as ozone depletion, climate change, [and] capitalism .”

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315 Bron Taylor documented the EF ! schism in 1991, and his description corroborates much of what Coulter told me. Taylor described a schism between what he called the “Wilders,” those members who were, like Foreman, “focused exclusively on wilderness, and the “Holies,” those who advocated a holistic perspective that took seriously how “threats to biodiversity we re related to other social issues” (Taylor 1991). Moreover, Taylor confirmed that the primary dispute between the two groups was “over the relative priority Earth First! should place on social issues which may not at first glance appear as environmental is sues” (Taylor 1991).20 In the aftermath of the RRR, Foreman and others who shared his views left EF ! . Coulter said that Foreman tried to negotiate so that he could take the name of the group and the journal with him but was not allowed to do so. He did not try to take down the organization with him, which she commended him for. Coulter spoke very highly of Foreman and insisted that she respected him but just had different ideological views. Moreover, she sought to dispel rumors that Foreman was a misogynist which he has been accused of many times: “I don’t remember anything of a misogynist nature from Dave Foreman. That was not my lived experience .” Coulter also spoke to how, after the split, she and others tried to bring increasing diversity to the EF! mo vement. She explained that, although there had always been many women and queer individuals in the movement, that before the split, EF ! had a very “macho” culture and “women were leaving in droves .” In order to exemplify the macho culture, Coulter describe d an image of herself taken while she was sitting around the campfire at an RRR: she wore Callies’ large beaver hat, was dressed slightly macho, and nursing Sasha by the fire. “That was typical if 20 Taylor’s account also documented the debate over the use of the American flag, and clarified that Wilders flew it “not out of nationalismbut because they believe the flag can also symbolize lo ve of the land, which fits well with their overall moral sentiments” (1991).

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316 you wanted to be a strong woman in those days – at least wi thin the Earth First ! movement ,” Coulter said. We were actually feminists of our time. We were very strong women, even though [in] a lot of the early Earth First ! groups men would start dominating the conversation. I would just hang in there and persist. But other women quite often would leave in droves because they were not getting heard or were not getting recognized. But I would just hang in there and fight for my space to be heard. A lot of the women who were in early Earth First ! were very strong and assertive. For Coulter, EF ! gave her self confidence, because in those spaces she was “respected for her ideas and thoughts .” In 2020, she said that her involvement in EF ! empowered and enabled her to have that self confidence in other areas of her lif e ever since. After the split, EF ! began to incorporate more people of color, queer individuals, more anarchists, and more indigenous people, according to Coulter. In 2020, she told me that “now it is very integrated with social issues”: EF ! is “very strong ongender and queer issues ,” has paid “more attention to immigrant issues from the southern border ,” and has taken an active role in “counter protests of the KKK [Ku Klux Klan] .” Coulter played an important role in this process, though she was not alone. Her background and training with the MX Alliance and other anti nuclear organizations along the way had awakened her to issues of social justice and Coulter became an advocate for increasing diversity in the movement. Moreover, she understo od the connections between environmental destruction and issues of social and environmental injustice as being the products of an industrialized, capitalist society. Blue Mountains Biodiversity Project In September of 1989, Coulter became romantically in volved with Asant Riverwind, who m she met again the previous year at an EF! action . Together, the two cofounded Blue Mountains Biodiversity Project (BMBP) in 1991, a grassroots 501(c)(3) non profit organization aimed at helping to protect and restore eastern Oregon’s forests (see “Blue Mountains

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317 Biodiversity Project” n.d.). Through a primarily volunteer run organization, BMBP conducts surveys of thousands of acres of proposed timber sale land each year in eastern Oregon.21 The intention of their field surveys is to witness and document the on the ground conditions of proposed timber sale areas and compare these with the Forest Service’s representation to highlight the potential damages of the proposed management. Moreover, BMBP is also concerned with the e ffects of climate change on forest ecosystems. In a video posted on their website in May 2019, Coulter explained that BMBP is especially concerned with protecting species viability and the integrity of ecosystems in areas where logging has been proposed (J ennings 2019). She also said that they regularly find violations in what the Forest Service has said and reinforced the importance of their work as the Forest Service has moved to increase logging in roadless areas and old growth forests. If BMBP finds ser ious threats to ecosystems and legal violations with the Forest Service’s proposed timber sales, they purse legal action to prevent logging in those areas. Although she had been more active in campaigns with EF ! through the early 1990s, Coulter decided t o devote herself primarily BMBP in 1995. “I made a decision that someone had to keep Blue Mountains Biodiversity Project going in 1995 when Asant started participating in actions and getting arrested more during the Salvage Rider campaign, also known as ‘ Logging Without Laws ’ .” She also realized that the work she was doing with BMBP was more effective than what she was able to do through civil disobedience. Another deciding factor for Coulter was her 1993 arrest in the Cove Mallard campaign with EF ! : she w as sentenced to three years of supervised probation and the prosecutor told the judge, ‘your honor, she has a long criminal history’” during her hearing. Coulter indicated that his remark was a “forewarning to her that 21 For more information about their work, see Hood ( 2019).

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318 maybe she should support these things more in a background role” before she found herself targeted for more serious legal trouble. Coulter has been arrested thirteen times for civil disobedience “that she can remember ,” with the majority of those arrests having been during EF ! actions. Since 1995, Coulter has primarily served as support for other direct actions, working behind the scenes doing media work, communicating as the police liaison, acting as a spokesperson, and facilitating meetings. One of the most important roles she played within EF! , however, has been as a nonviolence trainer. Throughout her time with EF ! , Coulter worked to prepare numerous people to participate in nonviolent direct action civil disobedience. During her training sessions, she taught participants that there are both ethical and pragmatic reasons for being non violent. She explained both to me in our interview: There are ethical reasonswhich is more like Ghandi and Martin Lu ther King type reasons, like you reap what you sow. In other words, if you use violent tactics, you tend to get violent repercussions. But that also leads to the pragmatic point that, in the U.S., does it make sense to use violence? Absolutely not! For one thing, you are way outgunned. For another, it will drive people away from building a movement because they won’t feel safe. I think the pragmatic reasons are almost as important as the ethical reasons. She expanded on this and said that the ethical rea sons “include things like not sowing the seeds for more violence .” Coulter went on to explain her position that she does not consider property destruction, sabotage, or monkeywrenching, tactics that EF ! is well known for, to be violent, unless they intimid ate or threaten people or if there is a possibility that someone can be harmed. Personally, she said, she has adopted the EF ! ethic for eco defense, which emphasize s that no life will be harmed.22 22 The EF! ethic for eco defense is a set of guidelines detailing how to do sabotage properly.

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319 “Fighting the Good Fight” In 1996, the Wheller Point fire roared through eastern Oregon, scorching over 23,000 acres of land. The fire, which started because of a prohibited Boise Cascade Timber Company contractor’s welding operation carried out despite burn bans across the state, torched Coulter’s la nd. She and Riverwind lost most of what they had on the property including personal possessions, twenty yearsworth of his paintings and her poetry, and goats and chickens. The fire also precipitated the end of their already complicated relationship: Coult er said that it “added a level of tension that was enough to turn the tide and have us split up for good.” Though the two “did a lot of great activism together,” won numerous cases with BMBP individually, and encouraged each other to become better artists during their time together, their relationship had devolved into a “dynamic where he was emotionally abusive and [she] was too passive trying to keep the relationship together .” In retrospect, Coulter said that the split was good for both of them. They rem ained friends and were able to continue to work together in BMBP and when they planned the first End Corporate Dominance Conference in 1998 in Portland. Held on the campus of Portland State University in 1998, the first conference boasted nearly eight hundred people, according to Coulter. Along with an alliance of other people who helped them to plan and host the conference, Coulter and Riverwind made it a point to “represent, as much as possible, people of color .” Coulter said that they brought in notabl e activists of color as keynote speakers, including well known Mexican American social justice activist Cecilia Rodriguez.23 After that year, Coulter and Riverwind detached themselves from the organizing committee, but hoped that it would continue in the w ay they had envisioned. By 23 See “Cecilia Rodriguez” ( n.d. ) for more information about Rodriguez’ life and work.

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320 the third year, however, the conference began to weaken, no longer involved any people of color in the a lliance or as keynote speakers, and eventually folded. Along with her other activist work, Coulter also began working with the Program on Corporations, Law & Democracy (POCLAD) in 1996 (see “Program on Corporations, Law & Democracy” 2020). Coulter described the organization as a “strategic affinity group of activists with decades of experience in different movements across the country that came together over issues of corporate power .” Inspired by her work with the organization, Coulter wrote a pamphlet “modeled after Thomas Paine” entitled The Rule of Property (Coulter 2007). The pamphlet was designed to be an accessible intro duction to help people understand how property rights are different than, and in Coulter’s view opposed to, other rights in ways that aid and abet corporate power. Later, she wrote a sequel to the pamphlet called “Equal Rights versus Property Rights” which explored the topic in more depth. When she finished the manuscript, she was unable to get it published. When we spoke in 2021, Coulter had just received funding that would make it possible for her to publish the book herself and was working on revisions. Coulter has also contributed articles to POCLAD’s publication “By What Authority” which are archived on the organization’s website. In February 2021, Coulter said that POCLAD had officially just dissolved and the organization ’ s few remaining members had de cided to redirect their attention to their ongoing activist work with other organizations . Along with the very positive experiences she has had throughout her life doing activist work, Coulter has also faced her share of danger. Though civil disobedience, protests, and blockades all come with their own set of potential dangers, Coulter explained that she has also faced a number of additional challenges, including threats to her own life, that have been related to her activist work. She spoke to instances w here she believed intimidation tactics were used to

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321 scare her, including once while working to prevent logging in Oregon around 1995, when lug nuts were loosened on the tires of t he i r car, presumably, to cause an accident, and on two other occasions, when people were prowling around on her property late at night. In December 2002, however, those intimidation tactics turned deadly. Coulter explained that she had been away from her land for a while and a friend had been looking after it. Right after he left, I tied up the guard dogand drove to the mailbox and back. Somebody was probably watching the land at that point and waiting for this guy to leave and me to come, because I was the target. After she returned from the mailbox, she went to fetch water for the horses and realized that the spigot on the well had been turned off, which was unusual. She proceeded to use the water for cooking and drinking that evening. That night she began to feel pain in her stomach, and by the next morning she was experiencing extreme back pain. She continued to drink the water throughout that time. In severe pain, Coulter called a friend, Laurie who was a n acupuncturist and had a degree in oriental medicine to ask for advice. Laurie indicated that she believed Coulter’s k idneys were failing and encouraged her to get to the hospital in Portland, a five hour drive from Coulter’s home, as quickly as possible. I was barely able to get into the truck, barely able to drive. I was in excruciating pain. I turned up punk music re ally loud to keep me going and drove there and basically collapsed. After the hospital was unable to diagnose her and discharged her, Laurie took Coulter to the house of another friend and herbalist, Griz, i n Lake Oswego to care for her. Griz, who was in Montana at the time, called in her team of volunteer medics to watch Coulter around the clock for symptoms, and to administer herbs and medications under her consultation and direction. Coulter said that Griz assumed that there was some sort of toxin and began a treatment regiment that would both bolster her immune system and help her detox. Coulter’s health continued to

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322 decline for a week and a half, and then she began to recover. She credited Griz and Laurie with saving her life. Even after her recovery, Coulter continued to have lasting symptoms that affected her memory and cognition as well as fibromyalgia. She entered a three year detox program with the Northwest Naturopathic College in Portland, and the symptoms eventually dissipated. After the incident, Coulter said that Riverwind, “put it together” and indicated that he believed the well had been poisoned. When Coulter had the water tested, the water quality lab representative she spoke to in Portland told her that she “certainly shouldn’t be drinking it or cooking with it” because of how high the mercury levels were. Coulter told me that she checked but could not find any natural sources of mercury nearby that could have contributed to the contamination. Coulter could not say with certainty who she though had put mercury in the well but did indicate that her suspicion was that it was a “local person, but probably related to a federal effort.” Coulter explained to me her belief that the poisoning attempt and other threats were related to “something [she] know[s] .” Due to her concern that her phone might still be tapped in 2020, I asked vaguely whether she could confirm that the information was related to her previous partner, Callies ’ death. She made a noncommittal “ hmm ” sound, as if she were think ing, asked, “does that suffice as an answer,” and laughed uncomfortably. We did not go into more detail about the connections that Coulter appears to draw between Callies’ death and the attempts she believes have been made on her own life. In 2021 she rein forced that she “could not prove anything.” However, when I asked her how these things had affected her life, she did not hesitate when she said: It’s made me more committed than ever. To me, everything that has happened to me that has been threatening an d possibly killing me has just made me more committed. That’s a way of understanding, in a sense, people who keep being activists and keep on being journalists in countries where activists and journalists

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323 routinely get killed. Because it is our passion. I t is what we feel we have to do to have a meaningful life and serve our role to protect what we love and protect what we think is essential to life. And to protect our dignity and protect our integrity. You just have to be able to go on living and being able to respect yourself and be able to defend your family or defend the earth, or whatever it is that you are defending with integrity. That’s what the meaning of life is all about from my perspective. That’s what makes my life worthwhile, is doing as m uch as I possibly can to protect ecosystems and to build community and to build movements and to keep fighting the good fight. So, it makes you more committed. “Visualize Industrial Collapse” or Live in Connection: A Choice Between Two Divergent Future s “Visualize industrial collapse,” Coulter told me, repeating the words from the bumper sticker on her truck. “It will be a necessary transition for the earth to survive and us to start reversing climate change .” Coulter spoke to her view that science has begun to support her position that capitalism and technology are forcing humans into self isolating positions and reducing community and recognizing that the industrial revolution was the beginning of global climactic change. “We have to reverse that ,” sh e said. From my point of view, when I work on BMBP, I’m working to fight climate change because I am aiming to keep forests standing and to keep the forests’ carbon for us. I live simply because I have strong opinions that modern tech is extremely destruc tive, both for human relations and for the environment. Environmental injustice is real We cannot have equal rights for people and the environment unless we deal with sexism and racism because it’s all intertwined. It’s power over. hierarchies have been created rather than community. We need to get back to communal ways of living where we have respect for each other and where it doesn’t matter what color we are or what age we are or what gender we are. Coulter was very critical of organized religion, and Christianity in particular because “it clearly constructsa hierarchy of ‘man over nature ,’ ” which is problematic for Coulter, who understands humans as only one species among a biologically diverse and interconnected living system. “The way Christian ity is practiced sometimes disgusts me because it seems to be a big historical effort, to me , at least by the oppressors , to make the oppressed accept their

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324 oppression.” Hierarchy and sexism have also informed Coulter’s own experience as an activist, which she spoke to in 2020. In collaborative groups including in the Forest Service , I don’t think people take me as seriously because I am a woman, but then I have the advantage of exceeding their assessment of me and throwing them off guard. Moreover, Coult er expressed her concern that “U.S history and his story is screening out women and screening out radical points of view .” She said, however, that she believes her gender has “made her work more nurturing” and has brought “a more holistic and future oriented focus” to her work as a facilitator. Her holistic perspective is also tied into her spirituality, which Coulter credits predominately to EF ! . Earth First! had a huge effect on cultivating my ideology as an activist and giving me spiritual connection through biocentrism and deep ecology. My spirituality is completely connected to nature, which Earth First! reinforced in me. I think cathedrals are beautiful, but to me, my cathedral is an old growth forest or in a high desert area somewhere. That spiritual connection, Coulter explained, comes from being in community with her environment. She likened her connection to the way indigenous people have been said to be connected to the land, ecosystems, and wildlife, and attributed her own connection to the amount of time she has spent in nature. I gather herbs and medicinal plants, and I gather edible plants and eat them and use them. Just seeing th e cycles of life around me that are not human ina living system that does not depend on humans, that does not need humans, where humans are just one species among many. It’s just much easier to feel that and to feel biocentrism as sort of a spiritual phi losophy if you see it and live it. For Coulter, one of the most important aspects of BMBP is the sense of community the organization has inspired. Volunteers from the organization also spoke to the importance of community and connection with members of t he BMBP team and with the environment. One volunteer, Sarah, noted that:

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325 No other groupis really on the ground getting to know the land in a really intimate way. Without that connection, it can be easy to make sweeping statements about how a forest should be managed. Without going there and seeing it, and getting to know it, and falling in love with it, you just don’t know . (Hood 2019) Speaking to the impact of BMBP, Coulter said that it has been “enormous”: the group has “stopped thousands of acres of ti mber sales , giving them better riparian buffers, dropping logging on steep slopes, [and] dropping logging i n critical habitat” (Jennings 2019). “Without our work, scores of violations would go unnoticed, and species would be that much closer to extinction, and we would lose precious wild places” (Jennings 2019). Coulter explained that mainstream environmentalists rarely “immerse themselves in the place at stake” and instead are focused on concerns that they can see “just looking at a document .” She said tha t this often means that they end up undercutting protections that she and BMBP have tried to establish and maintain. “It’s far easier for them to compromise away the ecosystem than it is for me ,” she said, citing her spiritual connection to the land as the reason she keeps fighting. Despite her pessimism, Coulter also expressed a reserved sense of optimism about the future. “There is a possibility that we could turn things around but there is no possibility of that if we don’t act, and if we don’t act str ongly.” The most important thing that Coulter emphasized is the need for community contact: You just need to have community contact, contact with young people, contact with nature, and appreciate it and then go out and work your ass off to save everythi ng. The existence of all that is what keeps me going and I have to recognize that and be in community and be in nature.

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326 In general, she said that she admires the younger generations, especially young women, such as Greta Thunberg24 and Kelsey Juliana25, who have continued fighting for change despite the dire circumstances. I really respect all of them because it is so hopeless now. So hopeless. So grim. No possible future it looks like, the way it is going. I don’t like to prevaricate, or make things up that are worse than they arebut for people to go on fighting when their own existence is in jeopardy It’s going to be hell if it continues this way and there is no sign of it not continuing this way. But when people say to me, “ what keeps you going,” which they do say quite often, I say “ first of all, younger people and future generations.” She also expressed the mentality that you “have to take the opportunities to appreciate the good parts in order to fight to save themand to keep yourself sane and centered enough to be stable enough to be a good activist. You have to think strategically.” For Coulter, thinking strategically means thinking about both the systemic causes of climate change, as well as the behavior of individuals, and finding soluti ons at all levels. One of the most important things, Coulter said, “is that people have to be connected to a certain spirituality, or emotion, or passion connected to the earth and to connect to each other and feel solidarity to each other” in order to mak e change . 24 Greta Thunberg is a climate activist from Sweden who, in 2018, at the age 15 began a climate strike outside of Parliament ( Skolstrejk fr klimatet or School Strike for Climate) and demanded that world leaders do more to address global climate change. For more information on Thunberg, including her 2019 TedTalk, see “Greta Thunberg: Climate Activist” ( n.d. ). 25 Kelsey Juliana is a climate activist f rom the United States who, in 2015 at the age of 19, was the lead plaintiff among other young people in a lawsuit against the U.S. federal government for “perpetuating the climate crisis by continuing to fund the fossil fuel economy, endangering the lives of all citizens, but especially disproportionately harming the lives of young citizens and future generations .” She is also the daughter of two longterm Earth First! activists. For more about her and the lawsuit, see Goodman ( 2019) .

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327 CHAPTER 10 CONCLUSION: WOMEN ON THE EDGE OF TIME The point of creating futures is to get people to imagine what they want and don’t want to happen down the road – and maybe do something about it. – Marge Piercy Woman on the Edge of Time The histories I have provided illuminate the roles of some of the leading women in the fight against nuclear technologies in North America. Although they are not all well known, these women influenced the growth and success of different facets of th e anti nuclear movement. Moreover, their work, research, and activism has contributed in various ways to increasing protections for future generations from nuclear power, nuclear weapons, nuclear waste, and nuclear war. Taken together, their stories demons trate the complexity of the anti nuclear movement and the unremitting threat of nuclear technologies. However, they also speak to instances of resilience, persistence, and endurance that may provide us with an inkling of hope as we look to the future. Alt hough the Cold War officially ended in 1991 and most anti nuclear protests in North America began to dissipate, the threat from nuclear weapons, and nuclear power technologies, remains. As of 2021, for example, the United States maintained a nuclear weapons arsenal of 3,800 active nuclear warheads (Center for Arms Control and Nonproliferation n.d.). Of those, 1,550 are allowed by the New Start Treaty (ratified in 2011) and can be used on up to 700 deployed strategic launchers (Center for Arms Control and N onproliferation n.d.; New START Treaty 2020). On 22 January 2021, the Treaty on the Prohibition of Nuclear Weapons (TPNW) went into effect, making it illegal in the eyes of the international court of justice at the United Nations for any country to use nuclear weapons (Lederer 2021) . The treaty also seeks to abolish all stockpiling and manufacturing of weapons, eventually leading to their complete eradication

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328 (Lederer 2021) . More than seventy five years after the first nuclear weapon was detonated, there i s now an end in sight. Meanwhile, as of October 2020, there were a total of 95 nuclear reactors still in operation in the United States, 19 in Canada, and 440 around the world (World Nuclear Association 2021; Krikorian 2020; see also Figure 102 for the s tatus of National nuclear power programs around the world ). 1 All of these reactors are still producing nuclear waste, risk catastrophic melt downs, and are potential terrorist targets. Figure 101: “Reactors Operating in the United States”: A map show ing the location of every operational nuclear reactor in the United States as of February 2021. 2 1 For an interactive map showing every extant nuclear reactor in the world (planned, under construction, operational, or shut down) with up to date information on their statuses, see “Nuclearplanet” ( n.d. ). For more information about nuclear the state of nuclear power around t he world, see The World Nuclear Industry Status Report 2019 (Schneider and Lovins 2019). 2 See World Nuclear Association ( 2021).

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329 Figure 102: “National Nuclear Power Program Startup and Phase out . ”3 Moreover, as of 2021 there are no completed permanent repositories for nuclear waste anywhere around the world, nor is there data to suggest that longterm or permanent storage would be effective in keeping nuclear waste out of ecosystems until it is no longer dangerous. Estimates for the length of time high level radioactive nuclear waste is hazardous vary dramatically between 1,000 and 10,000 years. The longterm biological and evolutionary effects of nuclear waste are yet unknown. The threat that nuclear technologies pose to the flourishing of ecosystems and the viability of life on earth persists. 3 See Schneider and Lovins (2019).

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330 Told through ethnographic and archival research and the life stories of six leading women, I have written an ethnographic environmental history of the North America anti nuclear movement. Through my research, I was looking for evidence to support or disconfirm my hypothesis, informed by critical gender studies and my reading of environmental histories, that there would be a dearth of information about the role that women other underrepresented individuals, and marginalized communities played in the anti nuclear movement in general, and in environmental movements more broadly. What I found, however, was that there is a general lack of scholarship about the anti nuclear movement and the individuals that were important figures within it. My contribution to this scholarship has been, in part, to highlight specific women who were instrumental to the movement’s growth and success. Moreover, it has also been to add to the growing corpus of literature in intersectional environmentalism and religious studies that illuminates the contributions of women to environment related, or environment focused, social movements. In Part One, “Background,” I evidenced that gap by providing a broad literature review of the role of women and other underrepresented individuals in environmental history and religious studies (in Chapter 3 ) and the anti nuclear movement in North America (in Chapter 4). My aim has been to begin to fill that gap within the history of the anti nuclear movement, though there is much more work that remains. The histories of the individuals I have detailed here have led me to discover a multitude of women who are deserving of space in this history: Randall Forsberg, Pam Solo, Rosalie B e rtell, Diane D’errico, Grace Thorpe, Kathleen Sullivan, Susan Griffin, Karen Silkwood, Sandy Silver, Liz Apfelberg, JoAnne Garrett, and Shelley Douglass, among numerous others. There remains, however, a gap in looking at the role of people of color in this movement, work that I aim to pursue in the future.

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331 I have also shown, through the application of three major themes that emerged during this project [(in)visibility, (dis)integration, and (dis)ease] the ways that the lived experiences of these women have been mediated by patriarchal, ideological presuppositions. For each of them, they were able to make lasting contributions to the anti nuclear movement despite (in)visible barriers, (dis)inte grative technologies and sociopolitical tactics, and (dis)ease brought on, imposed, and perpetuated by a system built upon a patriarchal worldview. In Part Two, “(In)visibilities ,” I spoke to the ways that patriarchal ideologies are reinforced through of ten (in)visible microaggressions that can, and often do, have debilitating consequences in the lives of women and other underrepresented individuals , as they did for Helen Caldicott (Chapter 5) . Like the consequences of exposure to nuclear radiation which Mary Olson (Chapter 6) experienced firsthand, these microaggressions can have long lasting impacts that cause anger, grief, depression, and debilitation. However, for both of these women, their exposure to the threat of nuclear technologies also had invisi ble, yet lasting consequences: both women went on to overcome their grief, channel their experiences into productive energy, and make powerful contributions to the fight against nuclear technologies. In Part Two “(Dis)Integration ,” I showed that despite t he (dis)integrating and isolating effects of patriarchal ideologies and nuclear technologies that women’s work and women’s activism has often been integrative and supportive. In one respect, I used the term (dis)integration to speak to the energy released as nuclear waste decays but also to the fracturing and destruction of individual lives by nuclear fallout or the radioactive biproducts of nuclear power, such as what happened to Wendy Oser in the aftermath of Chernobyl. I have also used the term to show t hat despite the negative impacts of disintegration that women’s work often fosters integrative solutions in forming communities to fight against the effects of nuclear

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332 disintegration. That beautiful and powerful integrative work is represented best by Joan na Macy. Chapter 7 integrates the stories of Oser and Macy around their shared work in the Nuclear Guardianship Movement. Therein, I showed how women, like Oser, have been brought into the movement through their experiences with nuclear power/radiation, ha ve found relief from their own grief alongside other women, like Macy, and been empowered to play a critical role in educating others, creating community, and expanding the movement. In Part Three, “(Dis)ease,” I spoke to the ways that dis ease with the patriarchal status quo, can, and often does, lead people to take action (and sometimes radical action) against the system upon which it has been built and that enables and perpetuates it. This is represented well by Linda Seeley, who began protesting her dis ease during the Vietnam War and continued to do so as an anti nuclear activist and representative of San Luis Obispo Mothers for Peace (Chapter 8) . It is also represented by Karen Coulter, who from a young age rejected the status quo and went on to become an anti nuclear activist and radical environmentalist (Chapter 9) . I have also shown, however, that disease and a lasting sense of dis ease can be lasting implications of voicing resistance. Both Seeley and Coulter have faced trauma and grief brought on by their activism, but none greater than their grief for the planet and for future generations. Despite their grief, they have persisted, and both women have gone on to engage in various forms of environmental a ctivism and to help found organizations focused on biodiversity conservation. That I have been able to do this work is itself a sign of the changing times wherein women, like those discussed herein, who have been precocious, and in many instances “audacio us ,” have been able to push the boundaries of the gendered status quo and have increasingly exercised their agency to make significant contributions and impacts. In part, it has

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333 been their persistence, and that of the generations of women before them, that has paved the way for future generations of women. There is still more work to be done, however. Herein, I have also illuminated the dynamic connections between religious and spiritual beliefs, gender, and environmental proclivities. In this respect, the anti nuclear movement serves as a unique focal point for understanding how spirituality and the environment have been and often are connected in the lives of women, and how religious beliefs can, and often do, contribute to proenvironmental behavior and activism. For all the women represented herein, despite the differences in their beliefs, their religious and/or spiritual understandings have fostered, at least to some degree, their anti nuclear activism. I have made another important point through my f ocus on women in the anti nuclear movement, namely, that their participation kindled, and thus set the stage, for their environmental concerns and activism. As I have shown, many women who participated in the anti nuclear movement went on to participate in the environmental movement in various capacities, including as activists and founders of organizations aimed at environmental protection. This informs questions that might be raised during future research about whether, and if so to what extent, religious or spiritual beliefs play a significant role in the environmental movement. In conclusion, this research has shown the powerful and lasting legacy of women who were not only forerunners to environmental activism, but who have raced against the c lock of anthropogenic climate change to fight against the continued use of nuclear technologies. They are women on the edge of time, and we are all indebted to them.

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334 LIST OF REFERENCES "1 July 1946 'Test Able', Bikini Atoll." 2020. Com prehensive Nuclear Test Ban Treaty Organization (CTBTO). https://www.ctbto.org/specials/testing times/1 july 1946test able bikini atoll/. Abram, David. 2020. "Foreword." In A Wild Love for the World: Joanna Macy and the Work of Our Time , edited by Stephanie Kaza. ix xvii. Boulder, Colorado: Shambhala Publications. Ackland, Len. 2002. Making a Real Killing: Rocky Flats and the Nuclear West. Albuquerque, N ew M exico : U niversity of N ew M exico Press. Adams, Carol. 2014. "Why a Pig? A Reclining Nude Reveals the Intersections of Race, Sex, Slavery, and Species." In Ecofeminism: Feminist Intersections with Other Animals and the Earth, edited by Carol Adams and Lori Gruen, 20824. New York: Bloomsbury. ———. 2010 [1990] . The Sexual Politics of Meat: A Feminist Vegetarian Critical Theory. New York: Bloomsbury. ———. 1993. Ecofeminism and the Sacred. London and New York: Continuum. Adams, Carol J., and Lori Gruen, eds. 2014. Ecofeminism: Feminist Intersections with Other Animals and the Earth. New York and London: Bloomsbury. Adler, Margot. 1979. Drawing Down the Moon: Witches, Druids, Goddess Worshippers, and Other Pagans in America. New York: Penguin Books. Albanese, Catherine L. 1990. Nature Religion in America: From the Algonkian Indians to the New Age. Chicago and London: University of Chicago Press. Alexander, Sidney. 2012. "The Origins of Physicians for Social Responsibility (PSR) and International Physicians for the Pre vention of Nuclear War (IPPNW)." Social Medicine 7, no. 3: 12026. Althaus Reid, Marcella. 2003. The Queer God. London and New York: Routledge. Alvarez, Lizette. 2000. "Senate and Clinton Still Stalled on Nuclear Waste Disposal." The New York Times, February 11, 2000. https://www.nytimes.com/2000/02/11/us/senate andclinton stillstalled on nuclear waste disposal.html . "American Friends Service Committee." n.d., https://www.afsc.org/about us . "American Friends Service Committee Records." n.d., University of Massachusetts, Amherst, Special Collections and University Archives. http://findingaids.library.umass.edu/ead/mums459#nu.

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380 BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH Amanda M. Nichols was born in Winston Salem, North Carolina. She earned her Bachelor of Arts in English and Religion from Wake Forest University in 2012 and went on to earn her Master of Arts in Religious Studies from the University of Missouri in 2015. Nichols entered the University of Florida in 2015 to study Rel igion and Nature and graduated with her Doctor of Philosophy in May 2021. During her Ph.D. program, Nichols served as a board member of the International Society for the Study of Religion, Nature, and Culture (ISSRNC) from 2016 to 2018 and the Book Review Coordinator for Journal for the Study of Religion, Nature and Culture ( JSRNC) from 2015 to 2017. In 2017, Nichols became the Managing Editor of JSRNC, a position that she contined to hold in 2021. In 2018, s he also became a steering committee member for the Feminist Theory and Religious Reflection Unit at the American Academy of Religion and was still serving in that role in 2021.