Embedded Files
Undergraduate research opportunity (3 credit hours) in energy justice and electric utilities
Energy Justice
Bedtime Stories for Public Servants: Energy Justice is a narrative-driven platform that brings the principles of energy justice to life through storytelling. Designed for public servants, students, and community leaders, this series uses fictionalized yet grounded narratives to explore how energy systems shape lives, communities, and environments.
Before stepping into the stories, a brief theoretical overview introduces the core concepts of energy justice to ground readers in key ideas and frameworks. Each entry then follows a four-part structure: a short story dramatizes an experience of energy injustice; a dialogue with the Civic Sage encourages reflection and ethical inquiry; and a broader policy commentary connects the narrative to real-world issues in public administration and energy governance. A curated list of further reading accompanies each piece, offering opportunities to deepen understanding through scholarly and practitioner sources. Together, these components illuminate the dimensions of distributive, procedural, recognition, and restorative justice—inviting readers to consider how more just and inclusive energy systems can be imagined and enacted.
Share Your Story
Share Your Story
I created Bedtime Stories for Public Servants because I believe some of the most important lessons in public service aren’t found in textbooks—they’re lived, felt, and remembered.
If you’ve experienced, witnessed, heard about, or even read something that made you stop and think—about the challenges, values, or everyday realities of public service—I’d love to hear it. Maybe it’s a situation you’ve faced, a conversation that stuck with you, or a challenge you saw unfold in your community. If it holds a lesson, a dilemma, or a truth about the public sector, it might just make a powerful story.
You don’t need to write the story yourself—just share the idea. I can take it from there, and if it’s a good fit, I’ll be in touch.
Feel free to send your ideas or experiences to me at mohsenfatemi@ku.edu
This project grows through real voices and shared reflections. Thanks for being part of it.
If you enjoyed it, feel free to pass it along to anyone who might connect with it, learn from it, or just appreciate the read.
Energy Justice
Energy Justice
Energy justice is a framework that seeks to ensure fairness in the distribution, decision-making, and recognition of rights and responsibilities in energy systems. It integrates principles of social justice into energy policy, planning, and practice. At its core, energy justice asks: Who benefits from energy systems? Who bears the burdens? Who has a voice in energy decisions?
There are typically three main dimensions of energy justice:
1. Distributive Justice
1. Distributive Justice
Focuses on how the benefits and burdens of the energy system are distributed across society.
Are energy costs affordable for low-income households?
Do all communities have access to clean, reliable power
Who is most affected by pollution or infrastructure (e.g., power plants, transmission lines)?
2. Procedural Justice
2. Procedural Justice
Addresses who is involved in decision-making about energy, and whether those processes are fair and inclusive.
Are communities meaningfully included in utility planning or siting decisions?
Do regulatory processes ensure transparency and accountability?
3. Recognition Justice
3. Recognition Justice
Emphasizes acknowledging and respecting diverse identities, histories, and experiences, especially of marginalized communities.
Are the unique needs of Indigenous, low-income, or minority groups acknowledged in energy policy?
Are these communities treated as legitimate stakeholders?
Some scholars and practitioners also include a fourth dimension:
4. Restorative Justice
4. Restorative Justice
Concerned with repairing historical harms and injustices caused by energy systems.
Are reparations or policy redress mechanisms offered to communities harmed by legacy energy infrastructure?
Why It Matters
Why It Matters
As the world transitions to cleaner energy, energy justice ensures that this transition is equitable, inclusive, and does not replicate past injustices—such as placing polluting infrastructure in marginalized communities or excluding vulnerable groups from decision-making.
If you're studying or applying energy justice (e.g., in utility planning, policy, or research), I can help you tailor this definition to your specific context.
Further Reading
Further Reading
Heffron, R. J., & McCauley, D. (2014). Achieving sustainable supply chains through energy justice. Applied Energy, 123, 435–437. https://doi.org/10.1016/j.apenergy.2013.12.034
Sovacool, B. K., & Dworkin, M. H. (2015). Energy justice: Conceptual insights and practical applications. Applied Energy, 142, 435–444. https://doi.org/10.1016/j.apenergy.2015.01.002
Jenkins, K., McCauley, D., Heffron, R., Stephan, H., & Rehner, R. (2016). Energy justice: A conceptual review. Energy Research & Social Science, 11, 174–182. https://doi.org/10.1016/j.erss.2015.10.004
Sovacool, B. K., Heffron, R. J., McCauley, D., & Goldthau, A. (2016). Energy decisions reframed as justice and ethical concerns. Nature Energy, 1, Article 16024. https://doi.org/10.1038/nenergy.2016.24
McCauley, D., Heffron, R. J., Stephan, H., & Jenkins, K. (2013). Advancing energy justice: The triumvirate of tenets. International Energy Law Review, 32(3), 107–110.
Algorithm Blues
Algorithm Blues
May 2025
In Algorithm Blues, a young data scientist at a utility uncovers how the company’s targeting model for energy efficiency upgrades systematically overlooks vulnerable communities by ignoring race and income data. When she proposes a more equitable approach using public data, she faces institutional resistance—forcing her to choose between complicity and quiet reform.
Maya Chen wasn’t hired to stir things up. At least, that’s what she kept telling herself.
When she joined Meridian Power as a data scientist fresh out of grad school, her manager had praised her coding portfolio, her efficiency, and her “clean architecture.” No one had asked why her thesis had focused on equity in urban energy systems, or why she’d spent weekends volunteering to help low-income households apply for energy bill assistance.
For the first six months, her job was simple: clean data, tune models, automate reports. She built dashboards for executive meetings, ran monthly usage trend summaries, and tuned a predictive tool that helped the energy efficiency team “optimize outreach.”
But it was the targeting model—the one the utility used to decide where to send efficiency rebates and upgrade offers—that kept tugging at her.
It wasn’t broken. In fact, it was elegant in its design: high energy consumption, building age, square footage, and property value all factored in to rank which neighborhoods should get proactive energy audits or marketing for insulation upgrades. The model predicted savings per dollar spent. Return on investment.
But one afternoon, as Maya compared those rankings with a city map she'd pulled from a public GIS portal, something caught her eye.
The highest-risk census tracts—places with the oldest homes, the worst energy burdens, the highest poverty rates—weren’t even on the company’s radar.
She clicked through the spreadsheets. Neighborhoods that were 80% Black or Latino. Streets with layered histories of redlining and disinvestment. Rental-dense blocks where average winter bills ate up over 15% of household income. None of them appeared in the top quartile of the targeting model. Some didn’t even make the top half.
The model didn’t see them.
Because the model wasn’t built to.
Maya didn’t sleep much that night. She ran the analysis again, this time layering in variables from the U.S. Census: median income, percent of renters, racial and ethnic composition, housing year-built data. She used a simple regression to show that including just two variables—poverty rate and renter percentage—significantly shifted the targeting index.
In the new version, the map lit up differently. The “top ten priority zones” became unrecognizable compared to the original. Entire swaths of the city that had been invisible before now blazed red and orange—energy burdens hidden in plain sight.
At 8:02 a.m., she sent a meeting request:
SUBJECT: Model Refinement Proposal – Incorporating Equity Metrics into Efficiency Targeting
The room smelled like burnt coffee and whiteboard markers.
At the head of the table sat Don, the senior director of Energy Programs. Maya respected Don. He was smart, respected, and moved like someone who had survived six rate cases and four board restructurings. But he didn’t always take risks.
“Thanks for coming,” Maya began, nerves tightening her voice. “I wanted to share some findings on our targeting model. I think we’re missing key areas—communities with high energy burdens—because we’re not accounting for social vulnerability.”
She clicked to the next slide: two maps side by side. The original model’s output, and her version.
A pause.
“Okay,” Don said, measured. “Walk me through this.”
She did—carefully, but clearly. She explained how public data could be used to supplement existing utility records. She cited EPA’s energy burden studies. She showed how targeting by ROI alone missed systemic disparities and left vulnerable households with the least support.
“Efficiency programs should be saving energy and reducing hardship,” she said. “We can do both. We just have to see the people who need help the most.”
Another pause.
From the far side of the room, someone shifted.
Mark from Regulatory Affairs cleared his throat. “These census variables… some of that’s demographic data, right? Race? Income?”
“Yes,” Maya said. “It’s publicly available, and we’re not identifying individuals. Just census tract averages.”
Mark shook his head. “That could be a legal minefield. The commission’s already wary of anything that looks like preferential treatment.”
Don frowned. “We’d have to run this by Legal. And Privacy. Maybe Ethics, too.”
Maya’s mouth opened, then closed. She hadn’t expected applause. But she hadn’t expected this.
“I understand,” she said. “But these aren’t fringe ideas. DOE uses these indicators in federal programs. And if we ignore them, our programs stay blind to need.”
“Or,” said Mark, “they stay focused on performance. Our mandate is kilowatt-hour savings. We don’t have a social service charter.”
“But we do serve people,” Maya said, trying to keep her voice even. “All of them. Not just the ones easiest to reach.”
Don raised a hand. “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves. Maya, I appreciate your initiative. Truly. Let us review the material. We’ll circle back.”
Weeks passed.
The dashboard remained unchanged.
No follow-up meeting was scheduled.
Maya returned to her usual reports, quietly maintaining the model she now knew was broken in spirit, if not in code.
But at night, she kept building her version.
She created a new tool—one that could overlay public vulnerability maps with utility data in real time. She wrote a short explainer about why equity wasn’t a threat to performance—it was a path to smarter performance. She ran a simulation showing that by expanding outreach to high-burden areas, the utility could actually improve program uptake per dollar spent, because those households had more to gain.
She emailed it to herself. Then to her old thesis advisor. Then to a friend at the city’s Office of Sustainability.
A month later, she got a call.
The city was launching a pilot project. A community-based energy planning initiative focused on resilience zones—places with aging infrastructure, high asthma rates, and economic precarity. They needed better data. Better models. Someone who could see both code and context.
“We want to partner with the utility,” said the city’s resilience lead. “But we need someone inside who understands the systems—and where they fall short.”
Maya hesitated. She still liked her team. She liked Don. But she was done writing code that kept the same people out.
“I’m in,” she said.
On her last day at Meridian Power, she left a simple note in the shared folder:
ALTERNATIVE TARGETING MODEL – V.4 – Equity-Integrated Framework
README: If we’re not measuring who’s being left out, we’re not doing energy justice.
She didn’t know if anyone would open it.
But she knew, finally, that someone else would be watching the map.
Guided by the Civic Sage
Guided by the Civic Sage
A quiet café tucked into a city side street. It’s late afternoon. Maya Chen sits at a small table, her laptop bag on the floor beside her. A mug of tea sits untouched. The Civic Sage arrives, carrying a tray with two cups and a familiar knowing smile.
Civic Sage (setting the tray down, taking a seat): You stayed quiet in that meeting longer than I expected.
Maya (without looking up): I spoke when it counted.
Civic Sage (gently): And then?
Maya (sighing, tracing the rim of her mug): They smiled, nodded, and shelved it. I built a better model. They stuck with the old one.
Civic Sage: Because it worked?
Maya (meeting his eyes): Because it was easy. Clean. Familiar. It didn’t ask hard questions. It didn’t name the neighborhoods they'd rather not see.
Civic Sage (nodding): Need tends to make people uncomfortable. It’s easier to measure watts than wounds.
Maya: I was just asking them to look at the data. Poverty rates. Renters. Census tracts where bills eat up paychecks. It’s all public. But somehow, that’s where the line got drawn.
Civic Sage (sitting back, reflective): Lines drawn in data often reflect lines drawn long before.
Maya (bitter laugh): I thought code could be neutral. But the model I inherited—designed for "efficiency"—was blind by design. It optimized savings per dollar, not fairness per household.
Civic Sage (gently leaning in): That's procedural injustice. When the way decisions are made excludes the very people most affected by them.
Maya (voice quieting): And when I tried to change the process, they told me I was being political. That race and income didn’t belong in our equations.
Civic Sage: But they’re already in the outcomes. Disparity doesn’t need permission to appear. It just needs us to ignore it.
Maya (staring out the window): So what do you do? When you're one voice in a room full of risk managers?
Civic Sage (pausing, then smiling softly): You keep the map. You refine the model. You find the allies—inside or out—who want to see more clearly. And when the system refuses to pivot, you build the tool anyway.
Maya: That’s what I did. I left it behind. The equity-integrated version. No one’s touched it yet, but… maybe one day.
Civic Sage (with a knowing glint): Or maybe someone already has. The thing about good tools—they don’t vanish. They wait for the right hands.
Maya (half-smiling): I used to think data was power. But now I think access is. Context is. The ability to ask different questions.
Civic Sage (raising his cup): That’s the heart of energy justice. Not just who has heat—but who decides how the heat gets there. And whose need rewrites the formula.
Maya (raising her mug in return): Then I guess I’ll keep rewriting.
Civic Sage: Just remember: Justice doesn’t always start with policy. Sometimes it starts with a model left in a folder. Waiting.
They sip quietly. Outside, the last light fades behind the city skyline. But the table between them holds its warmth.
Beyond the Story
Beyond the Story
This story illustrates the often invisible ways that procedural injustice manifests in everyday tools and practices within public institutions. Maya, a young data scientist, discovers that her utility’s targeting model—built to optimize energy savings per dollar spent—systematically overlooks the communities most burdened by energy costs. This is not due to overt discrimination or malicious intent, but rather the absence of equity considerations in the model’s design. Her experience surfaces a critical question for all public servants: who is built into our systems by default, and who must fight to be seen?
At its core, Maya’s story is about procedural justice—the fairness of decision-making processes, not just their outcomes. In public administration, procedural justice requires more than transparency or opportunity to comment. It demands that the design of decision tools, from algorithms to eligibility criteria, meaningfully include marginalized voices and contexts. In Maya’s case, the algorithm ignored factors like race, income, and renter status—publicly available data that would have revealed high-need communities invisible to the current system. When she proposes integrating these data into the utility’s outreach strategy, she encounters resistance framed around legal risk, political sensitivity, and institutional inertia.
This resistance reflects a deeper issue: the mistaken belief that data-driven systems are neutral. Maya’s colleagues claim that using demographic data is too political, while failing to recognize that not using it perpetuates existing inequities. Her experience teaches an important lesson—data use is a policy choice, and avoiding demographic or vulnerability data is itself a decision with distributive consequences. Ignoring race, income, or housing quality doesn’t eliminate disparity; it conceals it behind technical language.
The dialogue with the Civic Sage further expands on these lessons. Maya’s model wasn’t just about energy—it was about power. It questioned the institutional metrics of performance, challenged the boundaries of acceptable knowledge, and exposed how a narrow focus on return on investment can exclude those with the greatest need. The Sage’s words remind us that justice doesn’t always begin with a sweeping reform or top-down mandate. Sometimes, it begins with a quiet act of resistance—a better model, a question asked in a meeting, a tool saved for the right moment.
For public servants, especially those early in their careers, this story underscores the importance of designing with equity from the outset. Programs that rely only on those who can navigate complex applications or digital systems will always underserve those most in need. Tools that prioritize technical efficiency without equity will reproduce disparities in new forms. Equity must be embedded in models, metrics, and processes—not as an afterthought, but as a foundational principle.
Ultimately, Algorithm Blues challenges public professionals to take seriously their responsibility not just to serve the public efficiently, but to serve the whole public justly. Justice requires more than good intentions; it demands rethinking how decisions are made, who they benefit, and who they leave behind. Maya’s story invites us to revisit the models we've inherited—and have the courage to rewrite them when they fail to see the full picture.
Further Reading
Further Reading
Chen, C.-F., Napolitano, R., Hu, Y., Kar, B., & Yao, B. (2024). Addressing machine learning bias to foster energy justice. Energy Research & Social Science, 116, 103653. https://doi.org/10.1016/j.erss.2024.103653
Carley, S., Engle, C., & Konisky, D. M. (2021). An analysis of energy justice programs across the United States. Energy Policy, 152, 112219. https://doi.org/10.1016/j.enpol.2021.112219
Reames, T. G. (2016). Targeting energy justice: Exploring spatial, racial/ethnic and socioeconomic disparities in urban residential heating energy efficiency. Energy Policy, 97, 549–558. https://doi.org/10.1016/j.enpol.2016.07.048
Sunter, D. A., Castellanos, S., & Kammen, D. M. (2019). Disparities in rooftop photovoltaics deployment in the United States by race and ethnicity. Nature Sustainability, 2(1), 71–76. https://doi.org/10.1038/s41893-018-0204-z
Fowlie, M., Greenstone, M., & Wolfram, C. (2018). Do energy efficiency investments deliver? Evidence from the Weatherization Assistance Program. The Quarterly Journal of Economics, 133(3), 1597–1644. https://doi.org/10.1093/qje/qjy005
The Coldest Corner
The Coldest Corner
May 2025
This story highlights an example of energy injustice experienced by low-income and elderly residents like Eloise Grant, who face unsafe housing, unaffordable energy bills, and inaccessible assistance programs, while public policies prioritize abstract innovations like solar incentives over basic needs such as insulation, heating repairs, and equitable service delivery.
The cold came early that year, before the trees had finished letting go.
On East 27th Street, where the pavement cracked like old hands and the houses slouched under the weight of time, Eloise Grant layered socks inside her slippers. She’d been up since before dawn, listening to the groan of the radiator that no longer radiated, and the whisper of wind that slipped through her window frames like gossip.
She shuffled into the kitchen, every step a negotiation with her knees. The kettle hissed faintly, already set the night before. Eloise touched the stove knob and hesitated. Her thumb hovered, then pressed it. The flame sputtered, low and uncertain.
“You and me both,” she muttered.
She poured the water into her chipped mug, letting the steam warm her face for a moment before she added the tea bag. The tag read Chamomile. She wasn’t sure when she’d bought it. The box had dust on the edges, and the paper had faded from white to parchment yellow.
Eloise walked over to the thermostat. 59 degrees.
“Don’t be greedy,” she whispered to herself. She turned the dial up to 61. The furnace responded with a heavy sigh, then silence.
She wrapped a shawl around her shoulders and sat at the kitchen table, where a stack of unopened mail waited in a neat pile. At the top was the one she had already opened—the one from the Weatherization Assistance Program.
FINAL NOTICE: Please be advised that your application for the 2024–2025 cycle has not been selected. Due to limited funds, the program cannot serve all applicants. You may reapply during the next cycle.
Eloise had reapplied seven times.
She looked at the ceiling and exhaled slowly. The house was tired. She was tired. Each winter was a negotiation between survival and pride, and every year, the house gave a little more ground to the cold.
From her window, she could see the neighborhood. Or what was left of it.
There used to be families on every lot. Music from porches in the summer, kids selling lemonade or jumping rope. Now there were vacant lots and boarded-up windows. Even the church on the corner had closed. The stained glass was still there, but the doors were padlocked, and the preacher’s voice hadn’t echoed through the street in over a year.
She sipped her tea and watched a young man across the street haul a space heater from his car. He kicked his door open, carrying it inside. His coat was thin. She made a mental note to check on him if the cold got worse.
Her phone buzzed. She didn’t answer. It would be her son, Malik, calling from Phoenix, where the sun still had something to say in December. He meant well. But he couldn’t understand. He told her to move every year.
“Come stay with me, Ma. Just for the winter.”
But this was her house. Her street. Her story.
The sun rose, pale and uncommitted. Eloise wrapped her fingers around the mug and tried to remember the last time the city had sent someone to this side of town for something other than fixing potholes or writing citations.
That afternoon, the mailman brought another envelope. This one from the city’s Department of Public Utilities.
Notice of Potential Disconnection. Balance: $326.47.
She laughed out loud. A laugh with no humor, just disbelief. She hadn’t run the furnace in three days. Where was this bill coming from?
She dialed the number listed, waited through six options, then another ten minutes on hold.
“Thank you for calling. How may I assist you today?”
“I got a bill,” she said. “And a notice. But I barely have the heat on. Something’s wrong.”
The voice was polite but distant. “Ma’am, I understand. Unfortunately, I don’t have access to your meter readings here. If you believe there is an error, you can file a formal dispute online or in person at our downtown office.”
“I don’t drive anymore,” she said.
“I’m sorry to hear that. If you’d like, I can email the dispute form—”
“I don’t have a computer.”
A pause. “You can also send a handwritten request by mail, including your account number and a description of the issue.”
“I sent three letters last year,” she said. “No one answered.”
“I’m very sorry, ma’am. I can put a note in your file. But unless payment is made or a dispute is filed, the disconnection will proceed after the due date.”
She hung up. Her hands were shaking. Not from the call—those never helped—but from the cold. The kettle had cooled. The tea had gone bitter.
She went into the back room, where a stack of old blankets waited like ghosts of winters past. She took one, then another. She wrapped one around her shoulders, and another around her legs as she sat in her recliner. She looked out the window and saw the first snow begin to fall—light, like ash.
That night, the temperature dropped into the twenties. The wind howled, rattling the shutters like a child locked out.
Eloise pulled the blankets tighter and left the television on, if only for the noise. The news showed cars sliding on ice, followed by a report about a new energy program—“Green Homes for a Greener Future”—aimed at helping homeowners install solar panels and energy-efficient appliances.
She laughed again. Solar panels? She needed insulation. A new furnace. Sealed windows. Solar wouldn’t warm the frozen corners of her living room.
As the night deepened, she drifted into sleep. Her dreams were short and vivid: her husband stoking the old coal stove they used in their first apartment; her boys fighting over a blanket when they were little; the church choir singing through chattering teeth because the boiler had died that year too.
At 3:17 a.m., she woke up shivering. The thermostat read 53. Her hands were numb.
She stood up too fast and had to steady herself. She went to the kitchen and turned on all four burners. She knew it wasn’t safe. She’d told her neighbors not to do it themselves. But what else was there?
She held her hands over the flame and whispered to no one, “Just for a little while.”
The next morning, she stayed in bed. The snow had thickened. Her bones ached like warning signs.
She heard a knock at the door around ten. Slow, hesitant.
She didn’t move.
The knock came again, louder.
“Ms. Grant?” a voice called. “It’s Rosa from the clinic.”
Eloise sat up. “Rosa?”
“I came to check on you. Malik called and said you didn’t answer your phone.”
Eloise opened the door, her blanket still wrapped around her.
Rosa stepped in, young and brisk, brushing snow off her coat. “It’s freezing in here.”
“Just a little drafty,” Eloise said.
Rosa walked to the kitchen, turned off the burners, and opened the windows for a moment to air it out.
“You can’t do this,” Rosa said gently. “You know that, right?”
“I know,” Eloise said.
Rosa stood in silence, then reached for her phone.
“I’m calling Mr. Fields at the city. He owes me a favor.”
That afternoon, a man in a bright yellow vest came to inspect the furnace. Another one brought space heaters, courtesy of a local nonprofit. The city waived her disconnection notice and promised to reevaluate her case for winter assistance.
By evening, the house was warmer than it had been in weeks. Not warm, but survivable.
Eloise sat at the kitchen table as Rosa prepared a bowl of soup on the newly silent stove.
“You shouldn’t have had to wait for someone to find you,” Rosa said. “This street’s on every map of need, but never on a priority list.”
Eloise didn’t answer.
She looked out the window. The snow had stopped. The corner of East 27th and Monroe was still quiet. But for the first time in a long time, the silence didn’t feel like surrender.
Guided by the Civic Sage
Guided by the Civic Sage
A small community center room. The air is warmer than it was a few days ago. The storm has passed, but the weight of winter still hangs heavy. Eloise sits near the window, hands wrapped around a steaming mug. Rosa stands by a space heater, arms crossed. The Civic Sage enters quietly, wearing a long wool coat, and takes a seat across from Eloise.
Civic Sage (looking around): It’s warmer in here than I expected. A good change.
Eloise (softly): For now. Took a village—and a favor.
Rosa (sitting across from her): But it shouldn't have taken that much.
Civic Sage (nodding): No, it shouldn’t have. A system that waits for someone to nearly freeze before stepping in is not a system built for justice—just survival.
Eloise: I’ve been here forty years. Paid my bills. Voted. Helped neighbors. I don’t need much. Just not to be forgotten.
Rosa (quietly): And yet she was.
Civic Sage: This is what happens when recognition justice is absent. When institutions design programs for numbers, not for names. They forget who people are—and what they’ve already given.
Rosa (frustrated): She applied seven times to that weatherization program. Seven! If that's not procedural injustice, I don’t know what is. The doors are locked before people even get to knock.
Civic Sage: Indeed. A just process is not just about having a door. It’s about whether that door is reachable, open, and answered. Access is more than eligibility—it’s presence, responsiveness, and care.
Eloise: They keep saying there's help. But you need email. A car. A printer. A lucky day.
Civic Sage: Or someone like you, Rosa.
Rosa (hesitates): But that’s the problem, isn’t it? The system only moved when I used a personal connection. That’s not equity. That’s patchwork.
Civic Sage: You're right. Equity built on favors is fragile. A just system doesn’t rely on heroes—it works for everyone, especially those who don't shout the loudest.
A pause. Outside, the sound of wind returns faintly, brushing against the window.
Eloise: They’re always talking about solar panels on the news. That’s not what I needed.
Civic Sage (smiling gently): Energy transitions can be green and still be unjust—if they don’t start with the coldest homes, the leakiest windows, and the most forgotten streets.
Rosa: The city says it’s investing in clean energy. But no one’s mapping who needs it first.
Civic Sage: That’s the core of distributive justice. It’s not only about what is delivered—but where, to whom, and in response to what history. Energy justice demands we center repair, not only innovation.
Eloise (quietly): I don’t want charity. I want a system that remembers me before I’m in danger.
Civic Sage (leaning forward): And that’s the heart of this all. Justice isn’t emergency response—it’s design. Design that asks: Who might be last in line? Who’s already waited too long?
Rosa: So what do we do?
Civic Sage: You did it, Rosa. You showed up. But now it must become more than one visit. You—and others—can help design systems that don’t need rescue stories. Push for embedded equity metrics. Ask your council: Who gets warm first? Who waits the longest? And why?
Eloise (nodding slowly): I’m tired, but I still have my voice.
Civic Sage (smiling): Then you still have power.
The heater hums quietly. Rosa jots something in a notebook. Eloise sips her tea. The Civic Sage stands to leave.
Civic Sage: When winter comes again—and it will—the measure of justice won’t be in how many stories like yours are told, Eloise. It’ll be in how few need to be.
He pauses at the door, turning once more.
Civic Sage: Remember: A just energy future isn’t only solar panels and smart grids. It’s warm rooms. Open doors. And policies that start with the people who’ve waited the longest.
He exits. Rosa looks at Eloise. They don’t speak, but both know: something has shifted. Not the weather. The will.
Beyond the Story
Beyond the Story
The story of Eloise Grant is not a tale of misfortune—it is a mirror held up to our public systems. Her experience offers public servants an unflinching view of how energy injustice is produced not just by poverty, but by policies that fail to reach those who need them most. It reveals the lived consequences of programs designed with good intentions but without the accessibility, urgency, or responsiveness required to serve equitably.
Eloise’s home remains cold, drafty, and unsafe, not because resources don’t exist, but because the systems tasked with delivering them are chronically underfunded and misaligned with real community needs. The Weatherization Assistance Program’s denial—after seven attempts—is more than a bureaucratic outcome; it’s a policy failure in equitable delivery. When energy efficiency upgrades, heating support, and infrastructure investments are deployed uniformly rather than targeted, communities like Eloise’s are consistently left behind.
For public servants, this raises a pressing question:
How are resource allocation models reinforcing past inequities rather than correcting them?
Prioritizing needs-based, data-informed investment strategies—focusing first on households with the highest energy burdens or histories of disinvestment—is essential to aligning policy with justice.
Eloise cannot access the dispute system not because she’s unwilling, but because it was never built with her in mind. A process that assumes computer literacy, digital access, personal mobility, and the emotional energy to persist through endless red tape is a procedurally unjust system. Even when options exist on paper, they become meaningless in practice for many.
The lesson here is simple:
Inclusive design is not a feature—it’s a requirement.
Public servants must ask:
Are our forms accessible in multiple languages and formats?
Can services be accessed without internet or travel?
Are we building with unseen users in mind—those living alone, aging in place, or without formal advocates?
Embedding accessibility audits, equity impact reviews, and lived-experience user panels into program design can radically improve procedural fairness.
Eloise’s story is not just about unmet material needs. It is about being unseen. She pays, votes, participates—and is still forgotten. She is offered solar panels in policy headlines while needing insulation and a working furnace. That mismatch reflects a deeper issue: the failure to recognize the histories, identities, and preferences of those most affected.
Recognition justice demands that we ask:
Whose stories shape energy planning? Whose voices matter in policy framing?
Public servants must move beyond consultation as formality and embrace participatory co-design, particularly with elderly residents, Black and brown communities, and neighborhoods marked by historic disinvestment.
The intervention in the story—when Rosa calls in a favor and city workers arrive—should not be the exception. It should be the baseline function of a just public system. That it took a personal connection to override bureaucratic inertia is not a testament to compassion alone; it's an indictment of fragility in public accountability structures.
Public servants—especially early-career professionals—can use stories like Eloise’s to interrogate systems through a justice lens:
Who benefits from our energy planning choices?
Are justice metrics embedded in our utility oversight or program evaluations?
Do we define success through service coverage, or through community-centered outcomes?
Energy justice must be operationalized, not idealized. That means linking equity indicators to regulatory decisions, using disconnection data and infrastructure investments as justice metrics, and creating space for those at risk of energy poverty to meaningfully shape policies.
Further Reading
Further Reading
Xu, X., & Chen, C.-F. (2019). Energy efficiency and energy justice for U.S. low-income households: An analysis of multifaceted challenges and potential. Energy Policy, 128, 763–774. https://doi.org/10.1016/j.enpol.2019.01.020
Reames, T. G. (2016). Targeting energy justice: Exploring spatial, racial/ethnic, and socioeconomic disparities in urban residential heating energy efficiency. Energy Policy, 97, 549–558. https://doi.org/10.1016/j.enpol.2016.07.048
Hernández, D. (2016). Understanding “energy insecurity” and why it matters to health. Social Science & Medicine, 167, 1–10. https://doi.org/10.1016/j.socscimed.2016.08.029
Bird, S., & Hernández, D. (2012). Policy options for the split incentive: Increasing energy efficiency for low-income renters. Energy Policy, 48, 506–514. https://doi.org/10.1016/j.enpol.2012.05.053
Fowlie, M., Greenstone, M., & Wolfram, C. (2018). Do energy efficiency investments deliver? Evidence from the Weatherization Assistance Program. The Quarterly Journal of Economics, 133(3), 1597–1644. https://doi.org/10.1093/qje/qjy005
This story highlights the real example of energy injustice stemming from cryptocurrency mining operations in towns like Granbury, Texas, where residents face noise pollution, rising electricity costs, and environmental degradation while mining firms benefit from subsidized energy and limited regulation.
It started with a hum.
At first, it was almost imperceptible—a low, vibrating thrum like a distant truck that never seemed to pass. Holly noticed it one night in April, lying awake at 3 a.m. with the window cracked open. It wasn’t the kind of thing you could record and prove to someone else. It was just there—a presence, almost like a pulse embedded in the night.
Holly blamed her own nerves. The past few months had been heavy—caring for her mother as memory faded and anxiety took root. When the bluebonnets finally blossomed, she had hoped for relief. But the hum remained. And then others started mentioning it. At the Dollar Mart, a woman by the eggs said she couldn’t sleep. Down at the library, Ron, a retired history teacher, complained that his dog wouldn’t stop barking at night.
By June, it was undeniable. A constant droning, like an industrial hive. The town council admitted it was the new facility—Polaris Tech—set up on the edge of the industrial zone, right past the high school. Bitcoin mining, they said. Granley wasn’t the sort of place you’d expect to find cutting-edge tech. It was cattle auctions and church suppers, softball games and dusty roads. But the plant had gone up fast—three stories of cooling fans and processors housed in squat, white buildings surrounded by chain-link fences. Mayor Dupree had cut the ribbon himself, proudly touting innovation and progress.
The promise had been jobs, but Holly hadn’t seen many new faces at the diner. The place still smelled of burned coffee and fry grease, and the morning regulars still grumbled about gas prices and grandkids. One night in July, the hum seemed louder than usual, pulsing through Holly’s walls like a heartbeat out of sync with her own. She walked onto the porch. The sky was starless, buried beneath the yellow haze from the facility’s security lights.
Across the street, Mrs. Alvarez was out too, wrapped in her robe, arms crossed against the cool air.
"Can’t sleep either?" Holly called.
Mrs. Alvarez just nodded. "Gets inside you," she whispered. "Like it’s chewing at your bones."
Holly sat on the steps and tried to listen past it—to the cicadas, the rustle of leaves—but all of it was swallowed by the drone.
The electric bill arrived the next week—up thirty-two dollars from last year. When Holly called the utility, they said it was demand fluctuations. Everyone was using more. But Holly wasn’t. She’d cut back on air conditioning, trading comfort for quiet.
At the August town meeting, the community center was packed. A man from Polaris spoke about economic growth and energy innovation. Noise, he assured them, was within legal limits. He pointed to slides about noise-baffling panels and future investments.
"Why does my son cover his ears at night and cry?" a young father called out.
The Polaris rep hesitated. Mayor Dupree, standing off to the side, wore that familiar tight-lipped look—sympathetic but noncommittal.
"He doesn’t live near it," someone muttered.
September brought heat waves and the smell of hot metal. Holly’s mother wandered outside one night and fell, bruising her hip. Holly hadn’t heard the screen door creak open—the hum had masked it. Holly started keeping the windows shut and bought a sound machine, but it only layered static over the drone.
At church, whispers grew about selling out and moving. Some said it wasn’t worth the trouble, that Granley had always been their home. They shouldn’t be the ones to leave.
A reporter from Austin came through in October. Holly met her at the diner and talked about the noise, the rising bills, and how her mother sometimes cried, unable to remember if it was morning or night.
"They say it’s the price of progress," Holly said, stirring sugar into her coffee. "But who gets to decide that? And why do we have to pay it?"
The article came out two weeks later, buried in the business section, just another story about rural tech investments.
By December, there were three mining facilities within twenty miles. Polaris had bought more land, and MaraTech had moved into an old warehouse. Christmas came and went quietly—no carolers, no parade, just the hum.
On New Year’s Day, Holly stood in her backyard, watching the frost melt off the clothesline. Inside, her mother was asleep in the recliner, wrapped in a quilt. Somewhere in the distance, the machines worked on, pulling power from the grid, processing invisible currency. The hum was constant, like a second heartbeat beneath the town.
She wondered if one day the sound would fade into the background, become just another part of life in Granley. Or if, when the silence finally came, it would feel like peace—or like loss.
Guided by the Civic Sage
Guided by the Civic Sage
The room is filled with folding chairs and the murmurs of tired townsfolk. Holly sits near the front, arms crossed, while Mrs. Alvarez rubs her temples a few seats over. The hum from the Bitcoin mining facility seeps faintly through the windows. The Civic Sage, standing near the back, watches calmly. Mayor Dupree is at the podium, flanked by a representative from Polaris Tech.
Mayor Dupree (clearing his throat): Thank you all for coming. Tonight, we’re here to discuss the concerns raised about the Polaris Tech facility. We’ve invited Mr. Turner from Polaris to address some of the issues.
Mr. Turner (smiling): We understand the noise has been a concern. We’re committed to making adjustments. We’re looking into installing noise-baffling panels to reduce the hum.
Holly (standing up): You said that months ago. We’re still waiting. Meanwhile, our bills keep going up, and my mom can’t sleep.
Mrs. Alvarez (raising her hand): My grandson’s got headaches all the time now. You call this progress?
Mayor Dupree (defensive): We’re following regulations, folks. The noise levels are within legal limits.
Civic Sage (stepping forward): If I may, Mayor.
Mayor Dupree (nodding): Go ahead, Sage.
Civic Sage (addressing the room): Sometimes, progress feels like a gift wrapped in thorns. You can’t deny the excitement of something new, but when the costs fall on those least able to bear them, it becomes a burden.
Mr. Turner (firmly): We’ve created jobs and brought innovation to Granley. Change is always hard, but it’s necessary for growth.
Civic Sage (smiling calmly): Growth, yes. But at what cost? True progress uplifts rather than displaces. If we’re talking about energy innovation, we must also talk about energy justice—how the benefits and burdens are shared. Right now, the town seems to bear the burdens while the company reaps the benefits.
Holly (nodding): Exactly. No one from here works at that facility. You promised jobs, but it’s just noise and bills.
Civic Sage (addressing Mayor Dupree): Mayor, have you asked the people of Granley what they value most? Sometimes, the promise of innovation can blind us to the small, precious things we’re giving up—like peace, health, and a sense of home.
Mayor Dupree (hesitating): We thought it would help the local economy.
Civic Sage (gently): Sometimes, leaders listen to plans instead of people. Procedural justice means inviting everyone to the table before decisions are made. It’s not just about following regulations, but about ensuring that the voices most affected are heard and respected.
Mr. Turner (looking uncomfortable): We followed all legal protocols.
Civic Sage (nodding): Legality is one thing. Legitimacy is another. A decision made without the community’s consent or input rarely feels just.
Mrs. Alvarez (to the Sage): So, what do we do now?
Civic Sage (smiling warmly): You keep speaking up. Share your stories—how the hum affects your lives. Form a community group. Demand not just mitigation but real solutions. Often, it’s not about stopping change but shaping it.
Holly (to the Mayor): We just want to be part of the conversation. We live here. We should have a say.
Mayor Dupree (sighing): Maybe... maybe we need a community forum. Something more inclusive.
Civic Sage (nodding approvingly): A wise step. When progress hums too loudly, it’s time to tune in to the quieter voices.
The meeting ends with more hopeful murmurs. As people file out, Holly approaches the Civic Sage.
Holly (smiling): Thanks for speaking up. Sometimes it feels like no one’s listening.
Civic Sage (placing a hand on her shoulder): Keep reminding them. Change that disregards the community will never feel like progress. You have more power than you think—use it wisely, together.
Holly nods, a newfound resolve in her step as she walks out into the cool night air, the hum now blending with the quiet buzz of people determined to reclaim their town’s future.
Beyond the Story
Beyond the Story
The story of Granley and the impact of the Polaris Tech Bitcoin mining facility highlights several important implications for public administration, particularly through the lens of energy justice. The situation in Granley demonstrates how technological progress, when not carefully managed, can lead to significant social and economic injustices. These challenges underscore the need for public administrators to balance innovation with community well-being.
One of the most critical lessons from Granley is the importance of inclusive decision-making. The failure of procedural justice is evident in how the facility was built without meaningful community input. Residents like Holly and Mrs. Alvarez were left to deal with the consequences without having had a voice in the process. This highlights the need for public officials to prioritize community engagement from the outset. Holding public consultations before approving projects can help ensure that residents have the opportunity to share their concerns and shape decisions that directly impact their lives.
Another key lesson involves balancing economic development with community well-being. While the mining facility was marketed as an economic boost, the reality was far different for Granley residents. Increased energy bills, noise pollution, and minimal job creation reflect a failure of distributive justice. Policymakers should carefully evaluate whether the economic benefits of energy projects truly outweigh the social and environmental costs. Implementing community benefit agreements (CBAs) that legally bind companies to invest in local development or provide subsidies can help ensure that the benefits are shared more equitably.
The story also emphasizes the importance of respecting community identity and well-being. Granley’s sense of place and cultural fabric were disrupted by the constant hum and industrial presence of the facility. This reflects a broader issue of recognition justice, where the community’s unique identity and values were overlooked in the rush to modernize. When planning energy projects, it is essential to consider the social and cultural impacts, not just economic metrics. Tools like Social Impact Assessments (SIAs) can help identify potential disruptions and allow for proactive solutions.
Long-term accountability is another critical takeaway. The promises made to Granley about job creation and economic revitalization were not fulfilled, and the company failed to address the residents’ ongoing challenges effectively. This situation demonstrates the need for robust accountability frameworks where companies regularly report on their social and environmental impacts and adjust practices if negative outcomes arise. Establishing community liaison committees can also facilitate ongoing dialogue, ensuring that residents’ concerns are addressed as they emerge.
Finally, the story of Granley challenges the notion that economic modernization inherently equals progress. For communities like Granley, the costs of innovation often outweigh the benefits when local voices are not valued. Public administrators must rethink how they define progress, considering not only economic gains but also quality of life, social cohesion, and community well-being. By integrating energy justice principles into planning and decision-making, it is possible to achieve a more balanced approach that respects both development goals and human dignity.
Further Reading
Further Reading
Aladejebi, O., & Li, H. (2024). The flip side of the coin: Exploring the environmental and health impacts of proof-of-work cryptocurrency mining. Environmental Research, 233, 117199. https://doi.org/10.1016/j.envres.2024.117199
Mosier, S. L. (2025). Project Coin: Crypto environmental injustice in Pitt County, North Carolina. Energy Research & Social Science, 120, 103896. https://doi.org/10.1016/j.erss.2024.103896
Goodkind, A. L., Jones, B. A., & Berrens, R. P. (2019). Cryptodamages: Monetary value estimates of the air pollution and human health impacts of cryptocurrency mining. Energy Research & Social Science, 50, 156–167. https://doi.org/10.1016/j.erss.2019.04.016
Guidi, G., Dominici, F., Steinsultz, N., Dance, G., Henneman, L., Richardson, H., Castro, E., Bargagli-Stoffi, F. J., & Delaney, S. (2025). The environmental burden of the United States’ bitcoin mining boom. Nature Communications, 16, 2970. https://doi.org/10.1038/s41467-025-58287-3
Ottinger, G., Hargrave, T. J., & Hopson, E. (2014). Procedural justice in wind facility siting: Recommendations for state-led siting processes. Energy Policy, 65, 662–669. https://doi.org/10.1016/j.enpol.2013.09.066
This story highlights the historical context of colonial land theft (Doctrine of Discovery), the transformation of Indigenous land for fossil fuel infrastructure, and the contemporary dynamics of projects like the Trans Mountain Pipeline expansion that proceed without meaningful Indigenous consent. It evokes the continuity of erasure and the quiet resilience of those still bearing witness.
It was October when the surveyors came, their trucks crawling like beetles along the dusty edge of the old prairie road. Nora saw them from the kitchen window of her grandmother's house, the house her family had lived in for four generations—though they'd never owned it. Not officially. Not according to the county or the state or the endless paper maps those men carried, folded into creases like truths hidden under centuries.
She wiped her hands on her jeans and stepped outside, her boots crunching the gravel. The air smelled of harvested wheat and dry pine, and just beneath that, the faint oily tang of diesel. She knew what they were here for. She'd seen the markers weeks ago, fluttering neon flags like wounds in the earth.
"You folks lost?" she called out, her voice calm, neutral.
The man in the orange vest looked up from his clipboard. "Just checking easements, ma'am. Pipeline work. Nothing to worry about."
Nothing to worry about. She had heard those words before—from the county when they widened the road that sliced through their ceremonial grounds, from the utility company when they built towers across the ridgeline where her great-grandmother had gathered medicinal herbs.
Nora didn’t say anything. She just stood there, one hand resting lightly on the porch railing her uncle had carved. The man hesitated, then turned back to his team.
Inside, her grandmother, Talia, was watching the old television set with the volume turned low. Her hands, once strong from planting and sewing and skinning hides, now trembled when she brought the chipped teacup to her lips.
"They’re coming again," Nora said.
Talia didn’t look away from the screen. "They never stopped."
Later that week, a letter arrived, folded like a verdict. It came from the Department of Energy and Infrastructure—an easement request, though it read more like an ultimatum. They were to allow limited access for environmental assessment. Temporary. Routine. Compulsory.
Nora traced the signature at the bottom. A name, typed in bold. No phone number. No explanation.
She thought about the creek out back, where she used to play with her cousins, catching tadpoles in jars. They had called it Whisper Creek, for the way the reeds hissed when the wind came down from the north. It was where her grandfather’s ashes were scattered, years before she was born. Now the pipeline would go less than a mile from it.
That night, she lit a small fire in the circle behind the house. Talia came out wrapped in her quilt, the night air sharp around them.
"You remember the story of the wind woman?" Talia asked, her eyes half-closed.
Nora nodded. "She flew between the trees and turned the leaves to silver."
"She warned the people when something was wrong. Said the land could speak through her."
Nora poked the fire with a stick. "Who's listening now?"
They sat in silence as the flames danced, and the wind rose, just a little.
Weeks passed. Trucks came and went. The men in vests grew familiar, their gestures casual, their voices brisk. One of them, a younger guy named Adam, offered her a smile once. She didn’t return it. He seemed surprised.
"We're just doing our jobs," he said, not unkindly.
"So am I," she replied.
She began photographing everything—the land, the trees, the creek, even the flags and stakes that multiplied like invasive weeds. She posted them online, tagged them with old names: Asha'ni Ridge, Whisper Creek, Spirit Grove. Not the names from the maps.
One evening, Adam approached her as she was photographing a cluster of yellow markers near the old cedar grove.
"You know, none of this is technically yours," he said, gently, like an apology. "The title records go back to the 1890s."
Nora looked at him. "That’s when your records started. Ours go back further."
He shifted awkwardly, scratched the back of his neck. "I get it. But it’s complicated."
She didn’t answer. What was there to say? Complicated was a word that tried to make injustice sound like a scheduling conflict.
That winter, the ground froze. Work paused, but the letters didn’t. More paperwork, more notifications. The pipeline had been approved. Public good. Strategic development. National interest.
She read the phrases aloud to Talia, who shook her head slowly. "Same old song. Different drum."
In the spring, they came with machinery. The land shook. The creek muddied. Birds fled. Talia stopped coming outside.
Nora sat with her each night, telling stories. Not the ones in books, but the ones passed down: of the wind woman, of the fire that danced on the hills, of the boy who turned into a hawk to warn his people.
One day, the machines hit bone. Not fossils. Human. The crew halted. Authorities arrived. A statement was issued: "Historical remains. Evaluation ongoing."
Nora stood behind the yellow tape and stared at the mound of upturned earth. She wondered whose ancestor had been disturbed, and whether anyone in the capital reading the report would feel even a flicker of recognition.
Weeks later, the project resumed. A compromise was struck: the remains would be studied, then reinterred elsewhere. Nora didn’t go to the ceremony. She couldn’t.
The pipeline was completed the following year. She could see it from the hilltop now, a silver scar stitched through the green.
Talia passed away the next spring.
At the funeral, Nora spoke quietly, without notes. She thanked those who came. She told the story of the wind woman, and how she whispered warnings when the land was hurting. A few people nodded. Most just looked down.
Afterwards, she sat alone by the creek, camera in her lap, watching the wind move through the reeds. A hawk circled above. She listened.
She was still listening.
Guided by the Civic Sage
Guided by the Civic Sage
Evening. A faint wind stirs the dry grass. Nora and Talia sit by the fire behind their home. The Civic Sage appears—not as an intruder, but as a presence. Familiar, calm, as though they had always been part of this place.
Civic Sage (smiling gently, warming hands by the fire): May I sit with you awhile?
Talia (without surprise): If the land allows you, it’s not for me to say otherwise.
Nora (narrowing her eyes, half-curious): You with the government?
Civic Sage (measured and calm): No. And yes. I once walked its halls. I wrote policy, sat on task forces, answered questions no one knew how to ask. These days, I listen more than I speak.
Nora (dryly): Then you’ll hear plenty, just sitting here.
Silence. Crackle of the fire.
Civic Sage (reflective): I saw your flags—the ones you’ve named and shared. Spirit Grove. Whisper Creek. Not the names in the official files.
Nora (firmly): Those names don’t mean anything to them. (gestures toward the hills) But they mean something to us.
Civic Sage (gently): That’s what energy justice is. Not just poles and pipes. But who names the land, who decides its use, and who bears its scars.
Talia (with quiet certainty): They never asked. Not when the road came. Not when the towers went up. Not now.
Civic Sage (softly, with sorrow): That is the wound of procedural injustice. When the form says “public input,” but the outcome’s already signed.
A beat.
Civic Sage (steadily): And recognition? It’s in how they draw the maps. What they leave blank. What they call “unclaimed” when memory still clings to every stone.
Nora (challenging): So what do you do? When the rules are written by people who’ve never stepped foot here?
Civic Sage (firm, but kind): You speak. You document. You protest. And you serve. Not in the way they do. But in the oldest way. You bear witness. You remember. You teach.
Talia (softly): The land speaks. But not everyone’s learned how to listen.
Civic Sage (nodding, solemn): That’s our burden—and our call—in public service. To listen even when it’s inconvenient. To recognize history even when it’s buried deep. (looks to Nora) Your work—the photos, the stories, the names—they remind others that this land isn’t just data in a report. It’s home. It’s legacy. It’s consequence.
Nora (quietly, almost bitter): Does it matter, though? The pipeline’s in. The papers came. The machines did their work.
Civic Sage (leaning forward, voice low): Justice doesn’t always come as prevention. Sometimes, it comes as testimony. As pressure. As precedent. Policy remembers what people record. And you’ve made the record.
Silence. The wind rises. Reeds hiss in the distance.
Talia (softly): The wind woman’s here.
Civic Sage (smiling gently, listening): She always was. We just stopped teaching people to hear her.
Beyond the Story
Beyond the Story
The story of Nora and Talia, set against the quiet defiance of a rural household confronted by pipeline development, offers a compelling entry point into the structural and moral dimensions of energy justice. Through its richly layered narrative, the story reveals how institutional processes—when stripped of meaningful engagement, cultural recognition, and equitable burden-sharing—can reproduce injustice even under the guise of public interest.
At the heart of the story lies a profound failure of procedural justice. Nora and Talia are not invited into the decision-making process about the land they inhabit and care for. The easement letters, official notices, and detached surveyors all symbolize a system that performs consultation through paper, not participation. For students of public administration, this moment invites critical reflection: Who gets to define what counts as public input? And how can processes be restructured to make space for communities whose legitimacy is grounded in memory and experience, not formal title?
Closely tied to this is the dimension of recognition justice. The story underscores how bureaucratic systems often erase Indigenous and multigenerational knowledge by favoring legal records that begin only when the state began counting. Nora’s act of naming—Spirit Grove, Asha’ni Ridge, Whisper Creek—is a quiet but radical form of resistance. It reclaims the land from abstraction and renames it in terms of identity, story, and care. For public administrators, this challenges the habitual privileging of technical rationality over lived knowledge. Recognition justice demands more than acknowledgment—it requires institutions to recenter alternative histories and cultural frameworks as valid foundations for decision-making.
Meanwhile, the physical and emotional impacts of the pipeline—on the land, on sacred sites, on Talia’s health—exemplify the failure of distributive justice. The benefits of the infrastructure flow elsewhere, while the burdens are deeply localized. The story critiques the language of "strategic development" and "national interest," showing how such terms can mask the uneven geography of harm. Public servants must consider: Who pays the price of progress? And how can policies ensure that the burdens and benefits of infrastructure are equitably shared?
Importantly, the dialogue with the Civic Sage provides students with a model of reflective public service practice. Rather than offering technical fixes, the Sage prompts Nora and Talia to articulate the moral and cultural weight of their experience. This exchange models the kind of empathetic, narrative-informed listening that is too often absent in regulatory and planning processes. The Sage reframes energy justice not as a legal compliance issue, but as a question of democratic responsibility: "Justice doesn’t always come as prevention. Sometimes, it comes as testimony."
For public administration students, this story demands more than policy critique—it calls for a reimagining of what it means to serve. It encourages future practitioners to think beyond statutes and procedural boxes and toward a public ethic grounded in care, humility, and listening. Whether one works in infrastructure planning, environmental permitting, or utility regulation, the lesson is clear: Technical authority does not absolve moral responsibility.
In the end, the story leaves us with an image of Nora sitting by Whisper Creek, still listening. For students of public service, this image is both a metaphor and a mandate. It asks: Are we listening deeply enough to those at the margins of policy? And what must we change in our institutions to ensure their stories not only reach our ears—but guide our decisions?
Further Reading
Further Reading
Van Uffelen, N., Taebi, B., & Pesch, U. (2023). Revisiting the energy justice framework: Doing justice to normative uncertainties. Renewable and Sustainable Energy Reviews, 189, 113974. https://doi.org/10.1016/j.rser.2023.113974
Jalbert, K., Wasserman, S. E., & Florence, N. (2023). Scaffolding civic infrastructures: Examining the role of civic technoscience in public engagements with oil and gas pipelines. Energy Research & Social Science, 102, 103187. https://doi.org/10.1016/j.erss.2023.103187
Janzwood, A. (2023). Pipeline politics and the future of environmental justice struggles in North America. Global Environmental Politics, 23(3), 120–126. https://doi.org/10.1162/glep_r_00731
Hurlbert, M. A., & Datta, R. (2022). When the environment is destroyed, you’re destroyed: Achieving Indigenous-led pipeline justice. Energy Research & Social Science, 91, 102711. https://doi.org/10.1016/j.erss.2022.102711
Ngo Pouhe, M. S. (2023). Deploying energy justice for a meaningful inclusion of Indigenous peoples in energy decision-making. In The power of energy justice & the social contract (pp. 121–128). Springer. https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-031-46282-5_17
Page updated
Google Sites
Report abuse