By John W. Fountain
 |
Mary Stewart of Flint says she is facing the water crisis in
Flint with hope and faith. |
FLINT, Mich.—A silver-haired woman
with butterscotch skin, Mary Stewart sits inside Shiloh Commons Apartments, telling
us her story: After four heart attacks and two strokes, Stewart, 69, recently
learned she has a cyst on one kidney.
It may be cancerous, she says.
She thinks it may have been caused by the “bad” water, the corroded pipes, the dangerous
levels of lead in the drinking water. But she’s not sure.
Indeed Stewart’s testimony is
among many in this city of 100,000, where residents complain of disorders,
disease and assorted ailments since the water two years ago started coming out of
the faucet orange and foul smelling.
In case the world has
forgotten, in Flint, questions still linger, like a bad taste—in this city
declared by President Barack Obama to be in a state of emergency.
Indeed “we” found Flint well immersed
in a public health crisis, flooded with fears over the unknown. And yet, saturated
with faith and with hope.
I came to Flint recently with a
team of student-journalists in my class at Roosevelt University. We came to
capture the human story. To chronicle, “The Faces of the Poisoned.”
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“We’ve got to have people hear our cry.”
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Among them is Deonta Malone,
10. A soft-spoken boy, he bears a stubborn purplish rash on his right thigh.
His family blames the water. Reduced to taking birdbaths with heated bottled
water, Deonta told us he dreams of the day he’ll be able to run the tub full and
delight in a long hot bath, like he used to—on the day life finally returns to
normal.
Whenever that is, however, no
one around here seems to know.
Terraca Rogers, a mother of
three, sits inside Shiloh Missionary Baptist Church, reflecting on the personal
impact. The hands of her children, Shamya, Brianna, and Malik, she recalls, began
peeling, started looking like dried prunes. The skin of one of her daughters turned
charcoal black. She had all her children tested for lead. No trace. No answers
from doctors.
But the rashes and skin
disorders only showed up after the city switched its water source in April
2014, from “Detroit” water to the polluted Flint River. That’s why Rogers, like
most everyone here, suspects it’s the water—poison water.
In fact, officials say the
water funneled from the Flint River to many homes was a toxic soup.
“It’s difficult,” Rogers said. “You have to
change your whole routine of how you do things, getting up extra early just so
the kids can have fresh and warm water—when you get up in the morning to wash
their face, to brush their teeth and even make breakfast with,” she explained.
“It’s difficult.”
That much was clear and as palpable
as the sense of faith and hope, flowing through the parking lot of Greater Holy
Temple Church of God in Christ, where throngs of volunteers, working in the
Saturday cold unloaded two semitrailers of bottled water, food and snacks, and
filled the cars of local residents.
Also clear is that local churches and volunteers from across the
country have become the lifeline for people deprived of a basic human right:
Access to clean water.
Clear that despite the erratic
ebb and flow of the national media spotlight on Flint, that a crisis here
continues with measurable day-to-day impact and irreversible damage already
inflicted upon untold lives.
After having stared into their faces and listened to
their stories, I feel compelled to say, just in case the world has forgotten,
there is still a crisis in Flint.
“We’ve
got to have people to hear our cry,” Stewart told us.
I
only hope we’re all listening.
Story appears as originally published in the Chicago Sun-Times
