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In Louisiana, governing elites have long found it more profitable to deny the connections between health outcomes and the structural inequities of an anti-Black petrostate. Their denial is made possible by the existence of data divergence–that is, inconsistencies between data sets or between a data set and the realities it purports to represent (Encyclopedia of Social Measurement 2005). These inconsistencies range from missing or “undone” (i.e. incomplete or ignored) data (Frickel et al. 2007) to the production of different measures (and the selection of different priorities) by institutional silos. Recognition of the need for public health capacities that address the systems and structures impacting health–especially children’s health–has motivated health equity advocates in Louisiana to fill the data gaps through collaborative datawork, that is, the work of making data meaningful across social and scientific communities. In 2022, a coalition of community organizations, academic researchers, and public health workers led by the Louisiana Center for Health Equity (LCHE), a community-based organization created by a registered nurse, worked together to examine the links between adolescent mental health and disciplinary practices in schools. Ensuring their agendas were informed by community priorities led them to incorporate the contributions of adolescents advocating for better access to physical and mental healthcare resources and the abolishment of discriminatory and punitive disciplinary actions in schools. Their collaborative datawork revealed how data gaps around adolescent mental health are a structuring component of schools’ discriminatory and punitive climates–much as gaps in environmental health data benefit polluting industries. They found that existing figures around adolescent mental health are inaccurate, as many youth are unable to receive an official diagnosis owing to lack of healthcare access. LCHE advocates at a house committee meeting in January 2023 reported that students who exhibit behavioral issues rooted in trauma or mental health more often receive punitive disciplinary actions rather than rehabilitative and restorative services. This work generated the support needed to pass legislation to expand public health infrastructure and access to mental health resources. In June 2023, House Bill 353 authorized the allotment of "mental health days" as an excused absence for students; introduced procedures for schools to connect students to medical treatment and services; and required the Louisiana Department of Education to develop and administer a pilot program for implementing mental health screening, among other changes. By mobilizing advocates and scholars from across the social and institutional silos, LCHE’s collaborative datawork tentatively expanded children’s public health infrastructures. 

Fisher, Margaux. 2023. "Collaborative Datawork and Reframing Adolescent Mental Health in the Deep South." In 4S Paraconference X EiJ: Building a Global Record, curated by Misria Shaik Ali, Kim Fortun, Phillip Baum and Prerna Srigyan. Annual Meeting of the Society of Social Studies of Science. Honolulu, Hawai'i, Nov 8-11.

The previous annotation opened with Navajo Nation President Jonathan Nez’s remarks about being forgotten by the U.S. federal government, and the failure of federal actors to recognize their responsibility and respond to the needs of Indigenous nations of the United States. What President Nez said authorizes a common discourse circulating among Indigenous nations around the world about “being forgotten,” and the general ignorance of the nations within which sovereign nations are nested (see IITC Webinar Series). The Indigenous impact of COVID-19 has made the experience of being forgotten painfully apparent. In the previous annotation, I described how recent reportage has displaced this noticeable discursive gap in the absence of the federal government. This annotation amplifies the irony that such structures and processes of forgetting are becoming increasingly visible.

In what follows, I will examine how ignorance and forgetting were enacted by the federal government through a new strategy of the politics of time, as witnessed in the untimely response to the crisis that is rapidly unfolding in the Navajo Nation (Dinétah). To be sure, the delay in federal emergency relief funds incapacitated public health responses across all levels of government—“tribal” and “non-tribal”—but in varying degrees; the impact was acute among tribal government. At a broad scale, what we have witnessed is an inversion of the “capacity building” that was once in vogue in international development discourse in the domains of government and business, and the effective reduction in the U.S. government’s capacity to respond to natural and anthropogenic disasters. I will not speculate on how such extensive incapacitation of government produced a neoliberal lapse that opened up a new space for privatizing ‘essential’ public health services and technologies. Instead I will focus on perceptions of “the lapse” itself, which marks a double meaning as both the passage of time and cognitive failure in memory.

President Nez underscored the urgency of the matter: “Navajo residents are panicking as these numbers rise... We need a lot of help fast from the federal government.” Nez continued by describing the partial access to limited emergency relief funds: “We’re barely getting bits and pieces. You have counties, municipalities, already taking advantage of these funds, and tribes are over here writing our applications and turning it in and waiting weeks to get what we need.” A New York Times report identifies the “delays in receiving federal emergency funds” and the compounding effect of “the requirement that tribal nations, unlike cities and counties, must apply for grants to receive money from federal stimulus legislation.” The report concludes, “the Navajo Nation—among other tribal nations — has faced crippling delays in receiving emergency funding” (NYT). An Arizona Congressman, Greg Stanton, echoed Nez’s concern using a similar vocabulary of timing: “Well, I’m very frustrated. I’m angry we’re waiting. We’re in the middle of a pandemic. The tragedy on the Navajo Nation is happening right now, in real-time. This is not the time for delay.”

This is not the time for delay. It bears repeating. The prevailing discourse of urgency and delay calls out the federal government’s strategic negotiation of the politics of time. The anthropologist Stuart Kirsch introduces the concept of the “politics of time” to understand how corporations strategically delay recognition of the environmental impacts of industry (2014:145-148, 155). I am advancing the concept here to account for how the Trump administration has scaled up the widespread corporate strategy of delaying recognition and deferring critique through a new form of government incapacity building—literally and actually building incapacity into every level of government. The lapse in the federal response is a new strategy of the politics of time that forces us to think critically about novel responses to incapacitating delays during the pandemic. Kirsch also accounts for the new politics of time leveraged by the critics of corporations: the novel strategy of critical intervention early in the production cycle made possible by accelerating the local learning curve and sharing information. In the new (covid) politics of time, both early intervention and information sharing were stifled by the once most trusted authority of information, the Executive Office of the President.

The incapacitating effects of the new politics of time are exacerbated by attempts to control information and, in this case, produce a dazzling array of misinformation at the discursive level of national public health. During an interview on Democracy Now!, Dean Seneca, former senior health scientist in the Partnership Support Unit of the Office for State, Tribal, Local and Territorial Support at the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention, offers a diagnosis for why the Indigenous impact of COVID-19 has been so severe: “Well, as you can tell, you know, right from the very beginning, I mean, [Trump] didn’t make this pandemic a priority. He did a lot of mixed messaging in the very, very beginning when he started to talk about this. And you see that he’s trying to now — in his recent reports, trying to justify that, ‘No, we were on top of this right from the beginning.’ And that’s far from the case. You know, his mixed messaging is what was really critical. At times, he would say, ‘Well, hey, this virus is just going to go away. And we’ll wake up one day, and it won’t be here.’ You know, people listen to this information, and that is the wrong thing to send. He made a major mistake in eliminating his council on international health and global pandemics. That was huge right from the beginning. He should never have done that.” These early interventions of the current administration had broad incapacitating impacts.

Nearly half of Newark's school's are contaminated with dangerous levels of lead. Or so they were two years ago when this article was published. This relates to infrastructure because we are poisoning poor, primarily black and hispanic communities, whom already have low resilience. Because they live in empowerished neighborhouds, their children go to lower income schools, and when they drink the water provided there, they put themselves at risk of cancer, infertillity, and other results of lead poisoning. If Newark's infrastructure was more balanced between white and black communities, there would not be impoverished areas that have poisonous drinking water at schools, as the water standard in the schools would have been raised to that of higher income communities.