On this Earth Day, stand up for our environment by saying ‘yes'
Fifty-five years ago, 20 million Americans came together on the first Earth Day to say 'no' to pollution: no more oil spills off the Santa Barbara coast, no more toxic rivers catching fire like the Cuyahoga, no more pesticides like DDT that harm our health. Fed up with unchecked pollution, environmental leaders of the 1970s organized, educated, and advocated, ultimately ushering in landmark federal regulations, such as the Clean Air Act and the Safe Drinking Water Act, that fought contaminants in our air, water and land.
The environmental movement has excelled at standing up and saying 'no,' with huge results. We can credit the rejection of pollution with helping to restore ecosystems and save countless lives. Today, while some things remain the same — and we're still justified in fighting polluters to protect environmental and human health — some factors have changed, warranting new approaches. Climate change is no longer some far-off problem. It's here, and it's wreaking havoc. Last year was the warmest year on record; in fact, the hottest 10 years on record were all of the last 10 years. Floods, extreme storms, and disappearing winters are hurting Wisconsin's communities and economy. And we need to do something about it. On this Earth Day, as we watch our federal government turn its back on the science of climate change, we have an opportunity to keep moving forward in Wisconsin by saying 'yes' to wind and solar projects lining up for approval in our state.
While the president may be pushing expensive, 'beautiful' coal and opening up protected lands for oil and gas drilling, we know that homegrown wind and solar are not only the cheapest ways to produce energy in Wisconsin, but they also bring enormous economic benefits to communities that host these projects. Farmers who sign leases to host solar panels or wind turbines receive high, stable income for 30 or more years. Communities hosting projects receive annual utility aid payments to the tune of $5,000 per megawatt. Local leaders can then direct this boost to municipal budgets where the community needs it most, like repairing roads and lowering taxes.
But let's face it, in Wisconsin, large wind and solar projects remain controversial. Our state is rock bottom in the Midwest when it comes to the amount of wind energy we produce. Solar produces 100 times more energy per acre than ethanol, yet we devote more than a million acres of land to ethanol production and just a fraction of that to solar farms. The reality is that to protect the places we love and that sustain us, we need to build new, better infrastructure, because what we have now is harming us. We desperately need an alternative. We need more Wisconsinites to speak up in support of these solutions. The environmental movement cut its teeth by saying 'no' to the problem of pollution. The time has come to build on this legacy and say 'yes' to solutions: 'yes' to clean energy, 'yes' to thriving Wisconsin communities, and 'yes' to a brighter future.
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The Hill
16 minutes ago
- The Hill
Jeffrey Epstein case: Survey finds almost 7 in 10 say details were concealed
Close to seven in 10 Americans in a new poll said details around disgraced financier Jeffrey Epstein are being concealed as the Trump administration faces backlash over the issue. Sixty-nine percent said they believed there has been concealment of facts on Epstein's clients by the federal government, with close to 25 percent unsure whether facts had been concealed. Six percent said they did not believe that facts were kept secret, according to the Reuters/Ipsos poll. The poll highlights public grievances about whether authorities are withholding information on Epstein as President Trump has sought to tamp down a controversy that has divided his own party. On Wednesday, President Trump slammed 'foolish Republicans' who he said were helping Democrats by focusing on documents related to Epstein. The president, during an Oval Office meeting with the crown prince of Bahrain, repeated his assertion that the documents linked to Epstein were a 'hoax' from Democrats. Epstein was arrested on sex trafficking charges and died via suicide in 2019, according to authorities. 'Some stupid Republicans and foolish Republicans fall into the net, and so they try and do the Democrats' work,' Trump said. 'I call it the Epstein hoax. Takes a lot of time and effort. Instead of talking about the great achievements we've had … they're wasting their time with a guy who obviously had some very serious problems, who died three, four years ago. I'd rather talk about the success we have with the economy,' the president added. Trump's management of files linked to Epstein only received 17 percent backing in the Reuters/Ipsos poll, with 54 percent against it and 29 percent not sure or giving no response. The Reuters/Ipsos poll took place from July 15 to 16, featuring 1,027 people and close to 3 percentage points as its margin of error.
Boston Globe
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‘They're part of the family': A Vermont dairy farmer fears being separated from a family of migrant workers
Morin hired Bernardo and her partner out of necessity. He couldn't find Americans willing to milk his cows, raise his calves, and shovel out the barn — physically demanding work with long hours and modest wages. Over time, the relationship between the self-described conservative farmer and his migrant workers has deepened. Advertisement 'I consider them more than just employees,' he said. 'They're part of the family.' Farmer John Morin and his partner, Lynn Beede, had lunch with Wuendy Bernardo's family at home in Orleans County, Vt., on July 10. Craig F. Walker/Globe Staff The feeling is mutual. As Bernardo's 17-year-old daughter let out the family's chickens one muggy morning this week, she described Morin and his partner, Lynn Beede, in similar terms. 'They are like our grandparents,' she said. 'They care about us.' But this blended family could soon be pulled apart. Bernardo, who was apprehended after illegally crossing the southern border in 2014, has been required ever since to make periodic check-ins with immigration authorities. Since President Trump took office, those appointments have become more frequent, and the stakes have felt much higher. Her next one is Monday. 'Each time I go back, it's with the same fear,' the 33-year-old Bernardo said through an interpreter last week, seated at Morin's dining room table. 'When I walk into that building, it's with the thought that I might not be able to go home, and I might not be able to see my children.' Advertisement Morin — a Carhartt-clad man with gray facial stubble and kind eyes — also dreads the check-ins. 'If I lose my workers, I'm going to be done,' he said. 'What am I gonna do? Hire more migrant workers and worry about losing them ?' Bernado's children played outside the barn on the dairy farm in Orleans County, Vt., on July 10. Bernardo and her partner have lived and worked on the farm for over a decade with their family. Craig F. Walker/Globe Staff @font-face { font-family: BentonSansCond-Regular; src: url(" format('woff2'), url(" format('woff'); } @font-face { font-family: BentonSansCond-Bold; src: url(" format('woff2'), url(" format('woff'); } .dipgrid { display: flex; flex-wrap: wrap; align-items: stretch; margin: 25px -28px; } .dip__main { position: relative; overflow: hidden; } .dip__image { position: relative; top: 50%; left: 0%; } .dip__image.portrait { height: auto; width: 100%; padding-top: 24px; } .dip__image.landscape { height: auto; width: 100%; padding-top: 10px; } @media only screen and (min-width: 700px) { .dipgrid { display: flex; flex-wrap: wrap; align-items: stretch; max-width: 1200px; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; } .dip { width: 48.5%; } .dip:not(:nth-child(2n)) { margin-right: 3%; } .dip__image.portrait { height: auto; width: 100%; padding-top: 10px; } .dip__image.landscape { height: auto; width: 100%; padding-top: 0px; } .dip__main { position: relative; overflow: hidden; } } .dip_cap_cred { font-family: "BentonSansCond-Regular", "Times New Roman", Times, Georgia, serif; font-size: 14px; letter-spacing: .5px; text-align: left; margin: 3px 15px 0px 0px; font-weight: 200; } .dip_cap_cred span{ text-transform: uppercase; color: #6b6b6b; } .theme-dark .dip_cap_cred{ color: #fff; } .theme-dark .dip_cap_cred span { color: #fff; } Will Lambek of Migrant Justice comforted Wuendy Bernardo after discussing her immigration situation on July 10. (Craig F. Walker/Globe Staff) Bernardo milked a cow during an early morning shift at the farm in Orleans County, Vt., on July 11. (Craig F. Walker/Globe Staff) When Morin was growing up, there were dozens of farms in these parts. He and his siblings would milk his father's 50 cows before and after school, and bale hay in the summers. Most of those farms are now gone. The ones that remain are far larger and rely less on family labor. Throughout the state, an estimated 750 to 850 migrant farmworkers, mostly from Mexico and Guatemala, constitute 'There aren't a lot of people growing up into farming anymore,' Morin said. 'It's very hard to find American help that will actually milk the cows, work in the barns.' Margins in the industry have grown tighter as the price farmers get for milk hasn't kept pace with rising costs. 'I'm surviving, but I'm not gonna lie: It's hard financially,' said Morin, who bought the family farm from a brother. 'Of the 20 years I've been farming, I've probably had three good years.' Advertisement Bernardo's 18-year-old sister helped John Morin collect a calf and its mother on his dairy farm. Craig F. Walker/Globe Staff Bernardo's children cast shadows on a garage at the dairy farm where they live and work. Craig F. Walker/Globe Staff Of Vermont's 14 counties, Orleans was one of two Trump won in 2024. But Morin says there's a growing, if quiet, discontent among local farmers. 'I think a lot of people are not happy at all,' he said. 'We have to worry about weather. We have to worry about the price of milk fluctuating. And now we gotta worry about losing our help. We're just trying to make a living and feed the country.' Morin said he voted for Trump in 2016 'against my better judgment,' but backed the Democratic nominees in 2020 and 2024. 'I consider myself conservative, but I don't consider this administration conservative,' he said, emphasizing the importance of family values. 'You don't treat people like they're doing.' In recent months, rival factions within the Trump administration A Trump 2028 flag was posted on a hill in Orleans County, Vt., near Morin's farm. Craig F. Walker/Globe Staff US Secretary of Agriculture Brooke Rollins, until recently ICE did not respond to questions from the Globe about her case, or about its current posture toward migrant farmworkers. Advertisement Bernardo and her partner have five children, from 5 to 17, and also care for two of her orphaned half-sisters, ages 15 and 18. The family members have a range of immigration and citizenship statuses. It is a hard life of long days. Most mornings, Bernardo and her partner start milking Morin's 125 cows at 4:30 a.m., and again at 3 p.m. before letting them out for the night. In between, they do other farm and household chores and spend time with their kids. Morin's farm is smaller than most and lacks a modern 'milking parlor' that would allow the cows to come to centralized machines. Instead, Bernardo and her partner walk up and down three rows of cows in the barn, disinfecting their udders and attaching mobile milkers one by one. Bernardo and her 15-year-old half-sister made dinner at their home in their kitchen upstairs. Craig F. Walker/Globe Staff Bernardo fed a calf on the dairy farm on July 11. Craig F. Walker/Globe Staff The younger children also help feed the calves, and the older ones take the occasional milking shift. Days off are vanishingly rare because, no matter what, the cows have to be milked. But sometimes life gets in the way. When their 10-year-old son had appendicitis this spring, Bernardo and her partner stayed by his bedside for three weeks at a hospital in Burlington, while Morin took over some of their dairy duties. 'John was the one who picked up the slack, and they also helped care for the family,' Bernardo said. 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(Craig F. Walker/Globe Staff) Bernardo's daughters played in their bedroom before breakfast. (Craig F. Walker/Globe Staff) Occasionally the younger kids call down from their upstairs apartment to ask if they can come down to play or watch a movie. Advertisement 'Kids give life purpose. They give life meaning,' Beede said. 'I think that's what Wuendy and her family do in our lives.' Without them, 'It would be a very lonely existence for us, with very little purpose.' According to Dan Kurzman, a longtime friend of Morin's: 'He adopted that family — and they've adopted him.' Upstairs, the family of nine shares close quarters: a cramped kitchen and common area, one bedroom for the parents, and two more packed with bunkbeds. Several balloons in the kids' bedrooms last week marked the recent high school graduation of Bernardo's oldest half-sister. 'It feels exciting,' the 18-year-old said. 'My first graduation.' 'As a mother, that's what I hope for all of my kids,' Bernardo said. 'I hope to see them all graduate.' Bernardo's children played outside the barn while their parents work on the dairy farm. Craig F. Walker/Globe Staff The children have typical aspirations, of becoming a nurse, or a veterinarian, another an attorney, another a dentist, Bernardo said. They attend local schools, which the older kids say they prefer to long, slow summers on the farm, when they must concoct their own entertainment. 'We go to the river and spend time there when days are hot,' the 13-year-old said. 'And I think that's all.' (To protect their privacy, Bernardo asked that her children not be named.) Over a breakfast of homemade tortillas filled with pork sausage, spinach, and Vermont cheddar cheese, Bernardo's partner said he wished more Americans understood that all he and his family are looking for is a better life. 'We do the dirty work they don't want to do. We are not criminals. We are supporting our kids. We are part of the economy of the United States,' he said. 'That's all we do: work and feed our family.' Advertisement He said he felt nervous about Bernardo's looming check-in. 'I always try to stay positive and think everything will be all right,' he said. 'But with this administration, you never know.' Bernardo sat with her cup of coffee after having breakfast with her family. Her day started at 4:30 a.m. with the first of two shifts milking cows. Craig F. Walker/Globe Staff At Bernardo's last appointment with ICE, on June 20, crowds of supporters gathered outside the agency's office in St. Albans to protest her potential deportation. After a half hour she reappeared. She'd been told to return in a month. Morin, who had driven Bernardo and three of her children to the appointment, waited for her outside, fuming. 'This is not American,' he said. 'I wear the American flag. I support the Constitution. I support our troops that have fought for this country, that make this country free. What's going on in this country — it's not humane.'
The Hill
an hour ago
- The Hill
I was once an ICE prosecutor. What I see now in immigration courts is disturbing.
I hadn't heard the rattling of chains in a courthouse since 2012, when I was a prosecutor for the Department of Homeland Security at the Varick Immigration Court in New York City. Back then, shackles were reserved for individuals deemed a public safety threat or flight risk by ICE as they were being escorted from their holding cells. They often already had arrests or convictions. But in 2025, it's a whole new world. Sen. Alex Padilla (D-Calif.), Newark Mayor Ras Baraka and other elected officials have been arrested for bearing witness to immigration enforcement. Last month, ICE agents handcuffed New York City Comptroller Brad Lander at 26 Federal Plaza after he linked arms with an immigrant during what should have been a routine court appearance. Each day, ICE raises the stakes –– even targeting Americans who dare to show solidarity. I no longer work for ICE, but I still advocate for immigrants. And what I'm seeing representing clients at ICE check-ins and court hearings is seriously disturbing. Courtrooms that once served as venues for justice are now used to intimidate and remove those who challenge policy. President Trump's militarized immigration enforcement has produced shocking due process violations, chaos and widespread fear. The chains are back, but this time they serve a different purpose. Detainment is no longer about controlling security threats or managing who enters the country. Instead, courtroom arrests are part of a broader effort to restructure the immigration system by force and without debate or legislation. With each new policy, principled professionals inside the courtroom resign, leaving fewer voices willing to question what's happening. This quiet exodus should alarm us all, not just noncitizens. If no one within the system challenges this overreach now, we will soon witness the collapse of immigration courts as we know them. It is hard to ignore the growing sense of danger inside today's immigration courts. Since 2017, more than 300 immigration judges have resigned, retired or been pushed out, many citing political pressure and the erosion of judicial independence. Earlier this year, the Department of Justice abruptly fired 20 immigration judges, including five assistant chief judges and an entire incoming class, a purge widely condemned as politically motivated. Newer judges, trained under Trump-era protocols, now operate under intense scrutiny and are instructed to deny even the most basic continuances, including the standard 10-day extension attorneys typically receive to prepare a response. In April alone, immigration judges closed more than 11,000 asylum cases, a new record high. They also set another record: denial rates exceeded 80 percent. These denials often serve one purpose: to fast-track cases. This advances Trump's novel strategy of dismissing cases to expedite deportation, and to clear dockets to comply with ICE's removal quotas. The loss of judicial expertise coincides with a staggering funding imbalance: from fiscal 2023 through 2024, Congres s spent roughly $24 on ICE and Border Patrol for every dollar spent on immigration courts. This leaves judges overwhelmed and under-resourced, while enforcement agencies received hundreds of billions in support. With arrest quotas at 3,000 per day, and ICE surpassing its 41,500 funded bed spaces, the administration isn't seeking neutral arbiters. It is demanding compliant 'yes' judges to carry out its agenda of expedited removals. Fewer independent voices on the bench, rushed court proceedings and a courtroom culture that now prioritizes handcuffs over hearings have created another urgent crisis: There aren't enough immigration lawyers left to meet the needs of a ballooning docket. And the lack of oversight around ICE's tactics inside courthouses has had a chilling effect on those who remain. A national survey of asylum attorneys found that immigration lawyers experience levels of burnout and secondary traumatic stress higher than those seen in social work, prison care or nursing. Many report symptoms like depression, insomnia, intrusive thoughts and emotional detachment — signs that often mirror PTSD. For those representing unaccompanied children or trauma survivors, the emotional weight is compounded by a sense of moral injury — the psychological damage done by witnessing injustice while feeling powerless to prevent it. While data on government workers — particularly ICE attorneys — is scarce, the signs are troubling. There is no official count of how many have resigned or been pushed out, but those who remain face mounting political pressure and growing caseloads, and they are given no discretion. ICE's legal arm, the Office of the Principal Legal Advisor, is tasked with prosecuting millions of immigration cases, yet, unlike federal prosecutors in criminal courts, its attorneys operate with little public accountability. While the departures of immigration judges have drawn concern, attrition within the office remains unnoticed and unexamined. Yet its impact is felt as experienced, ethical attorneys quietly exit, leaving behind many who are less experienced or less ethical, and who at any rate are expected to implement policies without regard to their legality or the dictates of their consciences. One of them, James Joseph Rodden, an ICE attorney in Dallas, was recently exposed for running a white supremacist social media account while actively prosecuting immigrants in court. ICE declined to comment in late March on whether Rodden remains employed. We need courage from within the system –– judges, attorneys and officials willing to uphold the rule of law –– and meaningful reform to guard against the erosion of due process. When defenders of the Constitution resign and those like Rodden stay behind, loyalty to equal justice is replaced by loyalty to power. For the sake of our nation, we must do better. We must demand a system where immigration courtrooms are guided by principle. Veronica Cardenas is a former prosecutor with the Department of Homeland Security. She is the founder of Humanigration, a digital platform serving immigrants and their legal advocates.
