Crawford power plant

Consider the following descriptions:

Ninety-five thousand people living in an area with a five-mile radius, one park, two rival gangs, the soot of a coal-fired power plant, the stench of a garbage-processing facility and the high asthma rates to go with it.

Fresh produce heaven, mouth-watering New World cuisine, the second most prosperous shopping street in all of Chicago, and a long and rich heritage right next to a modern, state-of-the-art high school serving only 300 students.

How can it be that these two descriptions are not of separate places, but of one? Welcome to Little Village, the largest Latino community in Chicago. Located in the city’s southwest side, it is home to a dazzling culture but neighbor to the worst environmental blights.

At first glance, the neighborhood is a bustling place, like any charming neighborhood with a lot of history. Taquerias, shops with quinceanera dresses displayed in the windows, barber shops, Laundromats. But taking a tour of the neighborhood with the Little Village Environmental Justice Organization (LVEJO) will show you that past the bright stores and home cooked smells of 26th Street are a series of factories and waste facilities, even some that the government has deemed serious trouble spots, are all within walking distance. Some are even across the street from residences.

Underserved neighborhoods in Chicago are a paradox. Its small businesses can serve the community’s needs so well that its members never have to leave its borders, but it can be so defenseless that a polluting factory that moves in unannounced overnight is nearly impossible to shoo away.

Locals had been rallying for a park on Central Park and 31st Street for 15 years since 2000. The neighborhood has only one park, but it is on the other side of gang lines, making it essentially inaccessible to half the neighborhood. The alderman, Ricardo Muñoz, agreed that there should be a park built there. The people thought they were close to winning their park, but they later found out that he had changed his mind. Instead, he sold the land to MRC Polymers, a plastics recycling factory, for $0.50/square foot ($177,000) in October 2001, according to a press release from LVEJO. Nobody asked the opinion of local residents before the factory was built. The people were able to delay its opening for two years by using the area as the park before a fence was finally put up.

The factory is considered a brownfield—a contaminated site. It melts plastics into pellets and sells them to China, inevitably releasing potentially harmful substances into the environment. But to this day, the factory has not fulfilled requests by local advocacy groups to assess the health risks of living near it.

Right around the corner from MRC Polymers is the Meyer Steel Drum, a container manufacturer and refurbisher. Used steel drums that held a variety of chemicals come from all over the country to Meyer, where they were dumped together (bad idea.). They used to pour the toxic concoctions directly into the sewer up until eight or nine years ago, when an employee teamed up with a local activist to expose the practice. (The activist climbed a tree to take photos at 2 a.m. one night. Meyer now has a restraining order on her.) The employee also revealed that workers were not required to wear protective gear.

In addition to illegal dumping, they also burned old drums to rid them of chemicals. Residents across the street began to find ashes on the clothes they had hung out to dry, and the fumes burned their eyes and throats. This created a huge fire hazard. The last big fire it had was a level five in 1988. Eventually, per request of the people, the Occupational Safety and Health Administration order Meyer to clean up their act.

A short hike southwest is the Crawford power plant, two smokestacks standing next to a mesa-like heap of black coal. According to a Harvard School of Public Health survey in 2001, the Crawford power plant and the Fisk power plant in nearby Pilsen cause 41 premature deaths, 2800 asthma attacks, and 550 emergency room visits every year. But here’s the clincher: the energy it generates doesn’t even serve Little Village—it goes out of state.