The Universal Right to a Healthy Environment

What does it mean to be undocumented in the United States, to live in fear of loved ones being deported, to feel the formalized language of being ‘alien’ knowing it is a tactic to dehumanize us? When asked to share our stories, which ones do we tell?

I’ve learned over time how to decipher which version to share and which aspects to keep. For me, it depends on the community in which I tell it and the sense of ‘belonging’ I perceive from the places I share it.

Understanding climate change has meant digging into history, my ancestral knowledge, why my parents moved from Zacatecas, Mexico, to Minnesota, and embracing what makes a place ‘home.’ I learned that Zacatecas was a hot spot for mining, silver, copper, and gold as exports to Canada and the United States. My family held these jobs, which meant handling the TNT for land blasting and other unimaginable work. My dad was a worker in an open mine just a few miles from our home, a profession that left him with the scars to prove the physical demand. When I was born in 1992, both of my parents were already sick, and I was born with a lot of health complications. Doctors told my parents that if we remained in the community, it would be challenging to keep me healthy. I am not sure that my parents made the connection between heavy industry and our sickness. Still, my parents desperately wanted me to be healthy, so we migrated to the U.S. Now, I see the interconnections with corporations who positioned jobs that poisoned us as viable opportunities to make a living and that my parents had to choose between staying and remaining sick or migrating for the promise of health and a better life. I see the sacrifice that they made for me.

I know how people think and talk about immigrants, and I know the importance of what it means to share my story as part of this collective narrative. I know that it will resonate with so many others. I am holding the fear of wanting to protect my people while learning the importance of being more open so that we can be visible and represented in the climate conversation, too.

Moving to Minneapolis, we rented a room, and my school was near the HERC (Hennepin Energy Recovery Center), the state’s largest trash incinerator. We did not know the HERC was burning 1,000 tons of trash per day, with it emitting mercury, lead, carbon monoxide, and dioxins into the air. We did not know that the surrounding community had asthma rates in children five times the national average. I spent childhood years playing in the neighborhood, but I only learned about the dangers of the HERC a year ago. I now recall when we moved to the suburb of Richfield, that my sickness had gotten better. The HERC was built 34 years ago, and for a long time was positioned as “green energy.” I wonder how might things have been different if this information had been more openly available? I am grateful for the work of community groups, environmental justice activists and organizers who are dedicated to telling these truths. Yet, there is more work to do to make this environmental injustice and its importance known in the Latinx community. In my role, as Associate Executive Director of COPAL (Communities Organizing Latinx Power and Action), I have the power and privilege to do something about it.

This begins with recognizing the known patterns: who are the culprits in Minnesota and our homelands? When I was 9 years old, my mom was diagnosed with cancer. I began to unpack the layered and cumulative impacts of environmental injustice following our family from one community to the next. The commonalities are powerful corporations that share a greed that puts people last, extraction of land and labor, and monies made for profit first. Thinking about my origin story in Mexico, I now understand that there were policies in place to lessen harm to the health and viability of the community that could have made it possible for my family to stay, but they were not followed. Here in Minnesota, the Cumulative Impacts Environmental Justice Bill passed in the 2023 Legislative Session, yet there are still loopholes for industries to pollute without facing penalties. So, we must keep asking questions and showing up to hold those accountable. To implement laws that protect our people and put the community first. The journey of learning about who I am, the connections of environmental justice in my own story, and knowing what we have been through to be here fills me with mixed feelings about how people talk or think about immigrants as less than. In reality, climate change and the corporations responsible have played a significant role in migrant stories, and that connection is often overlooked.

In 2016, the hateful rhetoric coming from the President of the United States left an impact on me. I remember doing homework at the dining table after school, and my mom was in the kitchen. We listened as he talked on the news, saying that illegal immigrants were not people but animals. Something deeply stirred in me as I heard threats to make our existence here less visible. As a DACA (Deferred Action for Childhood Arrivals) recipient, which granted me temporary protection, otherwise known as a “Dreamer.” This status and more were at stake, and it was deeply personal. I started teaching citizenship classes so that my community members in Minnesota could become eligible to vote and change the narrative to reflect more accurately seeing people as human beings worthy of that dignity.

With a group of friends, we started teaching courses in Spanish to address the language barrier for a test only offered in English. The first class had thirty participants, and it became an incredibly successful program. In 2018, I met Francisco Segovia, the Executive Director at COPAL. That began our work together at COPAL to address the immediate needs of the Latinx community through policy change. In my role, I work at the intersection of environmental justice, health, wellness, and communications. My pull into this work directly relates to my lived experiences, but making the climate connection to the migrant story is not always accessible to people. It requires deeper awareness and learning for people to unpack their own stories. A big part of this work is listening to people and asking curious questions: where is home? Where are our families from? What cultural aspects, favorite foods, and celebrations make us who we are? What represents home, and how can Minnesota be part of that?

Working on the cumulative impacts of environmental justice and with community members to pass legislation has shown me the importance of sharing our dreams and stories. Crafting stories to share in community are the powerful testimonies that will be essential in public commenting to impact rulemaking where the details and accountability matter and must reflect our lived realities and experiences. Unfortunately, I am not alone in deciphering which version of the story I can tell based on the audience. But I want to get better at leaning into the fullness of what I want to share, despite the reception level I receive or the willingness of mainstream audiences to hear my words. Mostly, I want to share my story in the presence of my beloved community to help others see themselves in my migrant story.

Written by Carolina Oritz, with story coaching support from Change Narrative LLC.

Carolina Ortiz has been with COPAL since its founding in 2018. She led the communications team for two years and is now the associate executive director. Carolina was born in Zacatecas, Mexico and is currently studying communications at the University of Minnesota. A DREAMer herself, her passion for social justice stems from her own experiences and those of her community.

Carolina is a Climate Generation Window Into COP delegate for COP28. To learn more, we encourage you to meet the full delegation and subscribe to the Window Into COP digest.

The post The Universal Right to a Healthy Environment appeared first on Climate Generation.