People in the area known as the Newtown community of Gainesville, Georgia, know they are dying of cancer. On a walking tour this May, a church delegation placed black bows on mailboxes of house after house where one, two, three, and even four people in a home were victims of cancer or other toxic-related diseases.
Seventeen major toxic sites are within walking distance of the neighborhood, not to mention those not yet identified. Young and old are dying. Children are being born with defects.
As the stories of death unfolded in this African-American neighborhood, members of the delegation--which was sponsored by the National Council of Churches (NCC) Racial Justice Working Group--learned that there are no toxic sites in the white neighborhoods of Gainesville North. We learned that local, state, and federal agencies have not responded or have been slow to respond. We noted that no white church leaders were present (nor had they come to previous gatherings on this subject). And we learned the media have been uninterested.
A survey of 40 neighborhood homes with residents who have lived there 20 years or more showed 18 cases of cancer--in 40 homes!--three cases of lupus, 12 of asthmatic bronchitis, two of emphysema, one of tuberculosis, one collapsed lung, and one brain tumor. Authorities dismissed the survey, blaming the cancers on smoking, drinking, or the "lifestyles" of residents.
The Newtown community is one of several African-American neighborhoods located south of the Jesse Jewel Parkway, close to two Superfund sites. Thirteen of the 16 industries in the Gainesville area that report toxic releases under federal requirements are located south of the Jesse Jewel Parkway. Of the total reported toxic wastes released in Gainesville in 1990, 75 percent (440,160 of 587,664 pounds) was released south of the parkway.
The 30-member NCC delegation, which met in Atlanta to examine reports of racism in area communities, learned that it isn't life and death that matter to many city officials, it's what you call it. Numerous complaints have been made to the city, with no action taken.
Most amazing of all was the white city manager of Gainesville standing on a porch of an African-American family who had received a black ribbon on the walking tour. Fifty feet away was a huge crane and trash compactor, which was crushing cars, refrigerators, trucks, and other appliances complete with the freon, batteries, and other toxic pollutants.
The noise was so loud we had to wait for a break to hear the homeowner tell his story, which included how rats, snakes, stench, and fumes came from the junkyard. We asked the city manager if Gainesville zoning allowed junkyards in North Gainesville. He replied, "Gainesville zoning prohibits junkyards. This is a scrapyard." He went on to say that the city needed to be shown the "science" about the cancers--it couldn't go on "stories."
ON THE BUS from Atlanta to Gainesville, I had prided myself on being up to speed on environmental issues. I knew about communities of color being the targets for pollution--same as on Indian reservations, you know. As a former Wisconsin legislator, I knew all about corporations' power, money, influence, and disregard for the environment, especially the environment in poor areas.
Despite all that, I was unprepared for what I saw and heard. I was struck by the tenacity of the people engaged in a lonely struggle--and the fact that it was lonely. Where were the churches? Where were those from other neighborhoods? Where were the media? After the visit, words from the title of an old hymn, "Were You There?" went through my mind as I wrote about the day.
I came away hurting for those who were hurting--and couldn't come away. I came away not knowing what to do but knowing that I could not do nothing. And I came away knowing that calling a junkyard a "scrapyard" and calling cancer deaths "stories" cannot substitute for action.
The vision of black ribbons and cancer victims, the sounds of the trash compactor and children playing nearby, the smells of the "scrapyard" fumes and the flowers in the gardens are all mixed together for me--I won't forget.
Sharon Metz was director of the Milwaukee-based Honor Our Neighbors' Origins and Rights, a national human rights coalition primarily focused on Native American issues, when this article appeared.
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