Lessons in Environmental Justice. Группа авторов

      PHOTO 2.1: Patsy Oliver, Camille Brown, and Bettye Davis.

      Photo by Stella Čapek.

      When the Flint, Michigan, water crisis broke into the national news, and stories appeared about low-income African American children being exposed to unusually high levels of lead, the term environmental justice (EJ) was already somewhat familiar to the general public. But in the later part of the 20th century, the concept was still being invented. EJ emerged from a number of different directions, as a way of “framing” (or naming in a new way) a pattern of injustices that disproportionately exposed minority and low-income communities to toxic hazards. Multiple social actors, including social movement activists and scholars, have shaped its evolution. In this chapter, I’ll begin by revisiting an EJ case from my research that dates back to the time when the EJ “frame” was starting to spread through local and national networks (Čapek, 1993). The Carver Terrace case reveals some of those early dynamics and provides an interesting comparison and contrast with present-day EJ activism. I’ll also discuss how I was woken up to the issue of EJ, and how it shaped my research. Then, I’ll focus on “framing” theory as a useful analytical tool, and I’ll reflect on how the EJ frame has evolved over time. Throughout, I’ll draw selectively on the broad and rich field of EJ scholarship, which investigates not only where harm has been done but also how a socially and ecologically just society can be envisioned (see Agyeman, Schlosberg, Craven, & Matthews, 2016). But first, let’s imagine a community named Carver Terrace, a place that no longer exists, whose residents learned about EJ through a persistent struggle to get justice.

      Carver Terrace

      Picture this: In Texarkana, Texas, a thriving African American neighborhood called Carver Terrace is flourishing in the 1960s. Proud homeowners inhabit the neighborhood, jobs are plentiful, strong social networks connect neighbors, and the Mt. Zion Missionary Baptist Church is an active place. Residents compete to have the best lawns; children play safely outside; and gardens yield flowers, fruit, and vegetables. The neighborhood seems close to ideal. Fast forward to the early 1990s, and the neighborhood sits empty, surrounded by a chain link fence with posted “NO TRESPASSING” signs. The houses and church are boarded up, and weeds are growing in the once well-manicured yards. You’ll notice the unnatural silence. There are no people—no children playing outside, no neighbors calling to each other. By 1993, the houses and church are completely gone, and only the concrete pads, driveways, and streets are still in place. Some gardens are still blooming—the last “residents” to give up on the place. How could a place so promising disappear?

      Carver Terrace was built in the 1960s by a Louisiana-based developer who intentionally designed an affordable community for prospective African American homebuyers. Given the realities of racially segregated space in the South (and elsewhere), a development like this was highly desirable. As a resident told me, “It was a drawing card to us, because there had not been any houses of this quality available to us.” Those who moved in had a variety of stories—some were middle-class professionals; others were working-class residents who had never owned their own home. All were thrilled at the opportunity offered by Carver Terrace. The houses were eagerly bought up, and for many years, the neighborhood appeared to thrive.

      Carver Terraceon Contaminated Land

      But there was a catch. Although it didn’t seem too significant when people bought their houses, the land for Carver Terrace was part of a former industrial site that the city had rezoned “residential.” Starting in 1910, a number of industries operated there, using creosote to coat wood. The most recent was Koppers, Inc., beginning in the 1940s. When Koppers ceased operations in Texarkana, they left behind buried tanks and residues of creosote. Some local residents knew about the former creosoting operation, but when they expressed concerns, they were reassured by the city that it would be safe to live there. So, they anchored their lives to this place and made it flourish.

      Decades went by. One day in 1984, Environmental Protection Agency (EPA) employees in “moon suits” showed up in the neighborhood, testing the soil. This is how residents found out that there was suspected contamination under and around their homes. In 1979, Congress had asked the 50 largest chemical companies in the United States to report hazardous waste sites (a reminder about the importance of passing good laws!). Koppers reported hazardous chemicals, including creosote. Coal tar creosote, used as a wood preservative, has been declared a probable human carcinogen by the International Agency for Research on Cancer (IARC) and the Agency for Toxic Substances and Disease Registry (ATSDR, 2002). Over the years, Carver Terrace residents had noticed an unusual number of illnesses in the neighborhood, from rashes to a variety of cancers, and a surprising number of miscarriages and even deaths. But without good information, it was easy to normalize and explain away such incidents. Now, as news of the testing for toxic chemicals spread through the neighborhood, the health problems and the odd materials dug up during landscaping took on a new meaning.

      As residents became more aware of the threat of toxic chemicals, their relationships to their land and houses began to change. Distrust of local and federal agencies rose. While it is possible that in the 1960s less was known about the carcinogenic nature of certain chemicals, the rezoning of an industrial site like this one as “residential” was at best careless; at worst, it was negligent. It is also highly likely that a lower standard of scrutiny and safety was applied to land use for an African American and less affluent neighborhood. Residents felt deeply betrayed. The EPA declared Carver Terrace a Superfund site in 1984 (the federal Superfund was created to fund cleanups of contaminated sites) and placed it on the National Priority List. The next year, EPA and Koppers worked on a remedial plan, and Koppers did some soil removal and sod replacement in some people’s yards. But the process moved slowly, and little information was shared with residents. They anxiously wondered what would become of their neighborhood, and of their lives.

      Chemical contamination is sneaky, pernicious, and unsettling. It is often invisible, and its boundaries are unclear, which makes it difficult to assess and to address (for example, it is challenging to prove in a medical or legal sense). It makes its way into physical structures, land, water, and air, and into human bodies, planting seeds of doubt and fear. Just as devastatingly, residents discover that their property has suddenly lost its value when word of the contamination gets out. They are unable to sell their homes, which are typically their largest financial investment. They find themselves literally trapped in a place that is making them sick. Children, whose bodies are more vulnerable to contaminants, are at even greater risk. The almost unimaginable stress of such a situation is well documented (Edelstein, 2018).

      In response, in 1985 approximately 60 Carver Terrace residents filed a lawsuit against Koppers for damages. Lawyers for the corporation played up genetic factors among African Americans to explain away the residents’ illnesses and to exonerate the corporation. The trial was a major disappointment, and many residents became discouraged. But others became even more determined to fight for their right to live in a safe place. The EPA eventually proposed a cleanup technique called soil washing/filtering, claiming that contamination levels were not high enough for a buyout and relocation. But EJ scholars and grassroots groups charged that federal health studies were based on faulty designs. Carver Terrace residents began to try out some new strategies to get justice.

      To understand this shift, let’s “zoom out” and look at the bigger picture. Texarkana already had an environmental group, Friends United for a Safe Environment (FUSE). Predominantly white, and active in some form since the 1970s, FUSE had experience with fighting environmental problems. One of its members, Don Preston, spoke with several acquaintances in Carver Terrace about their situation, and attended an EPA meeting:

      I was absolutely appalled by the things I heard, the things that were happening to the people who lived out there. So when I told [FUSE]