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

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