Growth on Our Terms: How Communities Can Take Control of the Digital Boom

Silicon Prairie: Episode 1

Alan O’Hashi, here. I’m a Wyoming native, having grown up in Cheyenne. I have a new American Outlands podcast called “Silicon Prairie” about the data center land rush in the Rocky Mountain West, although these monstrosities are popping up anywhere there’s vacant rural land.

My family moved to Laramie while I was a sophomore at Hastings College in Nebraska. Upon graduation, I had no job skills and sat out the post-Vietnam War recession in grad school at the University of Wyoming. I ended up taking a job with the city administration of Gillette, in northeast Wyoming.

There, I had my first experience with an economic boom cycle.

Economic booms and busts are as much a part of the Rocky Mountain West as dust storms, pickup trucks, and someone insisting this year’s growth “will be different.” The newest growth explosion thundering across the region and the nation isn’t gold or fossil fuel extraction. It’s what I call digital foundries that crunch cryptocurrency transactions, stream high-speed video content, and feed the ever-growing brain of Artificial Intelligence, otherwise known as AI.

In this five-part series, I’ll draw on my experience watching rural communities grapple with energy-driven growth spurts.

I’ll look at what happens when gigantic Digital Foundries arrive in places built for cattle, coal mines, or low-stress living, and suddenly require enormous amounts of electricity, water, land, and infrastructure.

Along with the promises of jobs and tax revenue come less glamorous realities: the constant hum of cooling fans, industrial-scale backup generators, and massive warehouse-like buildings rising from open prairie or ranchland. What looks like “the future” in a corporate brochure can feel very different when it’s humming outside your back fence at 2 a.m.

Beneath the big promises from digital economy backers, boom-and-bust questions arise: Who gets the water? Who pays for the power? And who’s left holding the bag when the boom cycle ends?

I took my first job in the Powder River Basin at the onset of the coal boom. I remember driving from Laramie to Gillette, sight unseen, after surviving the Big Thompson Flood, and dropping out of grad school to take my first job with the city government in 1977.

When I drove into town, my first stop was 611 Kendrick Street, where I crammed into the light green, one-bathroom house I shared with four other guys. The water from the tap smelled like rotten eggs, with crud floating in it.

That was just the beginning.

Welcome to what sociologists call the “Gillette Syndrome.” Too many people swarmed into a small town. The locals quit their jobs as EMTs, store clerks, and school teachers to become dump truck drivers and coal shovel operators. The rapidly expanding population outstripped the community’s ability to keep pace.

The place was nutty back then: lots of guys with a lot of money and nowhere to spend it. Then-mayor Mike Enzi dubbed Gillette the “Energy Capitol of the Nation.” Mike went on to represent Wyoming in the U.S. Senate.

I was part of a team of carpetbagging young professionals who moved to town to increase the town’s capacity to handle growth. As much as we wanted to make things better, we all became part of the juggernaut.

Governor Ed Herschler famously coined the phrase “Growth on Our Terms.” Easygoing Gov. Ed had no problem wrestling with the fossil fuels industry. In 1975, he signed the Industrial Siting Act into law and established the Industrial Siting Council (ISC). At the time, the ISC was primarily concerned with permitting energy projects and their effects on communities.

Although many viewed Gillette and Campbell County as politically conservative strongholds for a long time, these two entities took the lead in the state by developing a comprehensive regional plan early on. Gillette had approved one of the state’s strongest zoning codes.

Gillette officials worked hand in glove with the ISC as coal mines moved through the permitting process. Companies were required to construct employee housing, pay for public street improvements, and expand parkland.

Campbell County and Wyoming have reaped the benefits of the fossil fuel boom over the past 50 years and are now seeking the next commodity. As with every other bust cycle, some folks pack up, and others will stay. This time around, what are the positive benefits and negative consequences of the digital Foundry migration coming of age in Wyoming?

What can communities learn from the coal boom? Microsoft, Meta, and Google want to expand across the vast, open prairies. The digital data boom won’t require as much labor as the fossil fuels industry, but an integrated approach can address other issues, such as electricity and water consumption, and excessive noise.

With Digital Foundries as core resources rather than standalone entities, and a little foresight, Digital Foundries can anchor successful mixed-use environments.

The commercial offices and research and development facilities surrounding the Digital Foundry are a natural fit for businesses that rely on its high-speed connectivity and computational power. This creates an innovation hub where technology companies, startups, and research institutions can collocate, fostering collaboration.

What will digital foundry communities look like? The residential component of a Digital Foundry would appeal to residents who work in the tech hub, value an efficient lifestyle, and enjoy unique amenities, including year-round fresh produce from on-site greenhouses. The development would have a distinct identity, driven by its technological and ecological integration.

A Digital Foundry is a building and a foundational anchor that can generate energy and heat and provide high-speed internet connectivity. By designing with a city planning mindset, potential problems such as the need for a steady source of power, heat, cooling, and mitigating sound pollution are reimagined as opportunities that create resilient and economically vibrant communities.

I visited a data center east of Cheyenne. Inside, I saw the behemoth brains of the futuristic cloud flashing and sending information into cyberspace. The sprawling industrial machine consumed staggering amounts of electricity and water just to keep the digital world spinning.

Digital Foundries across the West are arriving faster than the infrastructure needed to support them. In Silicon Prairie Episode Two, I’ll explore what happens when the digital economy competes with towns, farms, and families for electricity.

In episode 2, I’ll explore what happens when digital-foundry carpetbaggers roll into town promising jobs and economic development, and the community isn’t prepared to handle the sudden growth.

From Taboo to Trendy: What Happened to Japanese Culture?

I wandered through the Rocket Fizz candy store today, looking for a Goo Goo Cluster. On the way out, a shelf packed with Japanese candy sidetracked me.

Matcha Kit Kats.

Pocky.

Gummies in flavors I can’t pronounce.

A few days ago, I read about a Japanese convenience store opening in Longmont, Kawaii Conbini.

Part of me smiles.

Another part of me wonders, “What happened?”

I’m Japanese American. Growing up, my Nisei parents did not celebrate being Japanese. They tried not to attract attention to it.

America had spent years teaching them that being visibly Japanese was dangerous.

My parents belonged to the generation shaped by World War II and its aftermath. The U.S. government code led Americans to believe that the Japanese should be viewed with suspicion.

More than 125,000 people of Japanese ancestry were forced from their homes and sent to incarceration camps.

The lesson my parents learned was straightforward.

Speak English.

Don’t make waves.

Don’t draw attention to yourself.

Don’t give anyone a reason to see you as different.

The result was cultural amnesia.

The Japanese language disappeared from my house. Traditional customs faded. My parents encouraged me to become as American as possible.

I remember a time when Japanese food was considered strange. Sushi was exotic. Anime was niche. Asian products occupied a tiny corner of specialty stores. I packed my lunch when I was in junior high school. I never included maki sushi or teriyaki chicken, two of my faves to this day.

Today, the situation is the reverse.

Sushi is sold in supermarkets. Anime fills Comic-Con events. Japanese video games dominate popular culture. Japanese cars became symbols of quality and reliability.

People seek out Japanese knives, Japanese whiskey, Japanese electronics, and Japanese candy.

What changed?

The generations that fought World War II are largely gone. For younger Americans, Japan is not associated with wartime enemies. It is associated with technology, design, food, entertainment, and innovation.

Another factor is globalization.

When I was growing up, culture moved slowly. Today, a teenager in Wyoming can watch the same anime series as a teenager in Tokyo. A TikTok video featuring a Japanese snack can reach millions of viewers overnight. The world has become smaller.

That’s how I learned about Goo Goo Clusters. When I was in Nashville for a cohousing conference, I tried the caramel-peanut-chocolate candy for the first time. Prior to 1912, candy consisted of one ingredient. A Goo Goo Cluster was the first to combine a variety of ingredients.

America has changed, too.

The old expectation was assimilation. The goal was to become indistinguishable from everyone else.

Today, there’s a greater appreciation for cultural diversity. Americans are curious about differences rather than fearful of them. Food, music, language, and traditions once viewed as foreign are now opportunities to learn something new.

That doesn’t mean prejudice has disappeared. It hasn’t.

There’s been a shift, and the irony is impossible to ignore.

My parents grew up in a world where being Japanese made you a target. Today, consumers seek out Japanese products.

The candy aisle at Rocket Fizz may seem trivial, but standing there, I couldn’t help thinking about the cultural journey.

Maybe that’s progress, or a reminder that cultures survive when people are pressured to set them aside and wait for a new generation to rediscover them.

As I looked at those shelves of Japanese candy, I thought about my parents.

They spent much of their lives trying not to stand out.

I wish they could have seen a day when the once suspicious stood in line because they wanted a taste of what being Japanese had to offer.

Rocket Fizz did carry Goo Goo Clusters, but it was an expensive gift pack. I’ll wait to get one the next time I’m near a Cracker Barrel.

How Acronyms Shape Xenophobia in America

The Alphabet of Exclusion: The bureaucratic lexicon included “acronyms” to save time. In the history of American xenophobia, acronyms save face. Three-letter shorthand compresses the jagged edges of state power into something smooth, portable, and easy to swallow.

Today, we see ICE (Immigration and Customs Enforcement) and DHS (Department of Homeland Security) dominating the headlines.

These acronyms are the latest entries in a century-long glossary of exclusion.

Our Long Memory of Othering: Linguistic distancing is an ingrained feature of American domestic and foreign policy.

The names change, but the grammar of “the outsider” remains consistent.

• The Precedent – The Chinese Exclusion Act (1882): Before the era of modern acronyms, this was the first significant law that restricted immigration based on a specific race.

The Act codified the idea that certain people wouldn’t assimilate, establishing a legal basis for the federal government to exclude anyone deemed a threat to the nation’s homogeneity.

• The Prototype – EO (Executive Order) 9066 (1942): Eighty-four years ago, on February 19, 1942, the ink dried on EO 9066. With a stroke of a pen, FDR (Franklin Delano Roosevelt) authorized a military action and birthed a new “alphabet soup” of exclusion.

The WCCA (Wartime Civil Control Administration) and the WRA (War Relocation Authority) were established as wartime agencies for prison management.

By World War II, the language had become clinical. EO 9066 did not mention Japanese people or any specific ethnic group.


Instead, it authorized the Secretary of War to define “military areas” from which “any or all persons” could be excluded, a neutral phrase that allowed the WCCA and the WRA (War Relocation Authority) to operate with stoic efficiency.

By the time the public learned to say these new initials, 125,000 Japanese Americans had been rounded up from the West Coast, and filed away under the euphemistic labels of “evacuees” in “relocation centers.”

• The Modern Pivot – 9/11 and the Muslim Ban: The 21st-century xenophobia found its shorthand in the wake of 9/11. We saw the DHS implement NSEERS (National Security Entry-Exit Registration System), which targeted men from predominantly Muslim countries.

Later, the “Muslim Ban” (EO 13769) echoed the 1942 rationale and used the national security blanket to cover the profiling of a specific faith.

• The Present – ICE and the DHS Deportation Machine: Currently, the conversation centers on ICE and the DHS’s overly aggressive deportation tactics.

A three-letter enforcement agency reduced the complexity of migration and the history of Latin American labor by stripping away human dignity.

History suggests that when we stop using names and start using initials, take actions, and hold beliefs we’d rather not hold to account.

The WRA and WCCA have been abolished, replaced by DHS and ICE.

The letters changed, and digital databases replaced the paper files.

The underlying belief that certain populations must be registered, monitored, and managed for the safety of the collective “us” remains the durable dark side of the American grand experiment.