I have acquired the habit of inspecting my walls whenever I enter my room. It is a flippant rejoinder to the recent “revelation” that Winthrop House contains asbestos. In truth, I cannot call the announcement newsworthy; anyone who has lived in Winthrop can attest to its structural dilapidation. Still, I partake in the waggish social rituals that the news has generated. I offer my condolences and prayers to friends; I half-jokingly talk with fellow residents about our earnings from the inevitable class-action lawsuit—but only half-jokingly because, while the presence of asbestos was expected, it is nonetheless worrisome. I think about the students and staff who have been affected. I think about the administrative response, which assured us that no one has been “exposed to inappropriate or dangerous levels of asbestos.” Notwithstanding its unsettling resemblance to the prologue of "Contagion," the response felt dismissive and forced. Given that students have criticized the state of Winthrop for years, it is clear that the powers who handle University funding are unlikely to listen to complaints of structural feculence (unless, of course, it affects the bottom line). Met with this silence, I continue to write down Mesothelioma hotline numbers. I think about buying a facemask.

And then I remember. I remember that there are places in this country where facemasks have no power. Places where structural violence is met with tepid anger and bottled water. Seven hundred miles west, the city of Flint cannot be bothered with witty rhetoric and self-indulgent routines. Residents there are being sacrificed in the pursuit of balanced budgets. To save money in the face of declining tax revenues, government officials turned to historical precedent: They poisoned poor people. Water management reorganizations coupled with the looming termination of a municipal water service contract led to the unilateral decision to use the Flint River (a highly polluted waterway) as an interim water source, carrying the water through decrepit pipes. And so, since 2014, Flint residents have been forced to pay for odorous, discolored water. Water so corrosive, General Motors refused to use the water for its car parts; water so dangerous, municipal officials were promised water coolers in every office. Even without the revelation of lead contamination, any resident in Flint could have talked about how unsafe the water was.

But lead was found. And lead poisoning, even in small quantities, is debilitating. Moreover, these harmful effects are disproportionately borne on children—undue exposure to lead almost invariably results in health complications, learning disabilities, social impairment, and decreased motor skills. Just one child being forced to drink lead-contaminated water is unforgivable. Michigan poisoned an entire generation. Yet, as I search for resignations, prison sentences, and uprisings, I encounter a sobering truth: Apologies, apparently, are sufficient penance for these children.

Lead poisoning is largely irreversible. It does not forgive. So why should we? Why are we content with letting criminals roam free? Why are we content with anything short of a complete infrastructural overhaul, paid for by those responsible? Why are we silent?

We say nothing, because we know the implications. We know that Flint is not the only city that is faced with contaminated drinking water. At least thirteen cities across the state have reported dangerously high levels of lead. Like Flint, many of these cities are communities of color, cities with aging infrastructures, economically disenfranchised residents, and declining tax bases. We cannot calculate the number of children affected by chipping paint and corroding water pipes, but we know the number is indefensible. And if we acknowledge the cities in Michigan, won’t we then have to turn to Chicago? And Baltimore?

I write this piece, and I wonder, when will justice come for these children? Will it come from op-eds? Will it come from bottled water? I ask these questions, and I cry. Surely, the poisoning of children (even those who are black, brown, or poor) can inspire moral outrage. But I have seen Michigan’s response countless times: Assurances, increased oversight, promises—these are the peaceful solutions promised by our government.

But we will never find justice in these methods, for justice is not peaceful. Justice is retributive. Justice is redemptive. So we must redeem these lives with brimstone. Will we make the transgressors drink lead? Will we poison their children? We are certainly not above such tactics in the pursuit of lesser goals, like budget surpluses.

I think these things, and still I cry. Because the crisis in Flint is a confirmation of a basic, American reality: Certain lives do not matter. This reality predominately affects black and brown children, but white children too—a reality in which we are all complicit. I see individuals up in arms over the re-sentencing of an arsonist, but who will not spare a bullet for those suffering from actual brutality at the hands of government. I see myself writing this piece, privileged enough to toy with the possibility of taking legal action against the most affluent educational institution in the world, when the law has abandoned these children. Where has our conscience gone? Are we too depraved to tear down a government that has killed the innocent?

The truth is, we have already tuned out their screams.

So I sit here silently, looking at the cracks in my walls.

Jonathan S. Roberts ’17 is a Special Concentrations concentrator in Winthrop House.