By Tom Perkins for Planet Detroit.
Broadcast version by Mark Richardson for Michigan News Connection with support from the Solutions Journalism Network

During the early 1970s, Michigan enacted a bold set of environmental laws that helped form an unprecedented check on the nation's industrial heartland. The state's water and air quality standards went beyond the minimum set by federal law, and it became a leader in managing natural resources and protecting wetlands.

But it wouldn't last long.

The 1990 election of Gov. John Engler ushered in a new era of deregulation, and, for the next several decades, governors and a largely GOP-controlled Legislature shredded environmental protections while defunding and gutting the state's regulatory agencies.

The sustained assault hobbled regulators, who are now often unwilling or unable to hold polluters accountable, and the results are in - Flint's water is poisoned, dangerous air pollution chokes Detroit, and PFAS-contaminated water is killing residents, among other environmental crises.

But now Michigan's polluters face a new kind of check. A loose coalition of environmental attorneys and activists are increasingly confronting industry with a multi-pronged approach - suing to force companies to follow the law, stepping in during the permitting process and waging campaigns to raise awareness of corporate misdeeds.

They're de facto regulators, and their strategy is undeniably effective. They've forced the closure of the toxic incinerator near Midtown, tripped up Nestle as it attempted to seize the state's water, pushed utilities like DTE Energy toward clean energy and taken on industrial polluters in and around southwest Detroit.

These groups see themselves as a last line of defense when there isn't the "political will or appetite to protect the environment," said Nick Schroek, director of the University of Detroit Mercy's environmental law clinic.

"Going forward, we'll likely see more litigation from public interest groups, and that's partly because of a failure of our government, both state and federal, to evolve and add additional environmental protections that were needed in the face of changing circumstances," he said.

The rise has been accompanied by a new focus on environmental justice issues in low income communities that bear the brunt of industries' wrongdoing and political indifference. A new generation of activists from Detroit and other cities has risen, increasingly working with long-established environmental groups (many of whom are new to environmental justice issues) to pressure policymakers.

In recent years, they mounted what is essentially a vigorous public relations campaign that outed Marathon as a local corporate villain. While activists have fought the incinerator since its planning stages, an uptick in public pressure in recent years was critical in forcing its closure, said Nick Leonard, director of the Great Lakes Environmental Law Center.

In the absence of meaningful government oversight, activists are "doing the accountability work for the regulatory system," said Michelle Martinez, acting executive director of the Michigan Environmental Justice Coalition.

"They're the scientists, they're the regulators, they're the checks and balances of a broken system," she said. "They're taking on a David and Goliath fight in almost every single case, whether it's Marathon Oil, or FCA or the Detroit incinerator - you have fights against multibillion dollar fossil fuel corporations that have the lockdown on the political system."

But while citizen and public-interest lawsuits provide the public with a valuable weapon in battles with polluters, ultimately the war can only be won with a robust regulatory apparatus. Last-line-of-defense legal cases brought by residents "are not going to get us where we need to be," on encompassing issues like climate change, Schroeck said.

"We're sort of nipping around the edges of really, really complicated complex issues ... and there needs to be systematic statewide and nationwide efforts, rather than piecemeal litigation," he added. "To solve issues like chemical contamination across the state, there needs to be a uniform approach."

'A hurdle to economic growth'

The deep cuts to the Michigan Department of Environmental Quality in the 20 years that preceded the Flint Water crisis clearly illustrates how defunding regulators can spark environmental disasters that take and destroy lives.

During the early 1990's, Engler weakened the DEQ (now EGLE) by taking a more direct oversight of the agency and enacting deep budget and staff cuts. Gov. Jennifer Granholm next slashed the budget by nearly $100 million, and a 2010 EPA audit of the DEQ found that $300,000 in cuts to the Drinking Water Program had a "significant impact" on the agency's ability to monitor water.

Gov. Rick Snyder's administration pushed an extreme "business-first" philosophy in the DEQ that was summed up by Dan Wyant, the agency's first director, in a 2010 Crain's interview: "It's true we'd like to have more resources, but it's important that we get the economy back on track first. The DEQ can be a part of that by not being a hurdle to economic growth."

By the time the Flint water crisis started poisoning residents, the agency's staff and funding had been cut by around 20% since 2001. The attack on regulators here mirrored that playing out nationally as conservatives began to argue that "environmental protection was something that was somehow at odds with a healthy economy," Schroeck said. But he noted that history repeatedly shows how this approach leads to environmental disasters, like Flint.

"We saw the crippling of our environmental regulators and it was really impossible for them to do their job," Schroek said. "The way these laws are supposed to be designed is that we have a government regulator that's there to protect the public's health, and to be a counterweight to the very powerful corporate interests."

Even if the regulatory agencies were enforcing laws during recent decades, a series of Republican attorney generals largely were uninterested in prosecuting polluters, though that's changed since Dana Nessel's 2018 election. Soon after taking office, Nessel challenged Enbridge's dangerous Line 5 plans and later filed a first-of-its-kind suit against PFAS manufacturers.

Meanwhile, the state's GOP-controlled Legislature in recent years passed "polluter panel" bills that gave industry the power to override new environmental rules. The same group was behind the 2018 lame duck assault on the environment in which it eliminated protections for a vast swath of the state's wetlands, loosened regulations around toxic fracking waste, approved the controversial Line 5 plans, and more.

In 2017, as Flint residents continued suffering and living without clean water, GOP legislative leadership sent an astonishing letter to Snyder that called for less environmental oversight.

"While we can appreciate the role of the DEQ, we see a pattern of unreasonable overreach when it comes to implementation and enforcement of laws and regulations that is alarming, and it seems that this concern has become more evident over the last couple of years," it read.

Courts as a last resort

With the state failing to protect the environment, public-interest attorneys can turn to the courts.

They typically use one of several tools.They can file a citizen suit in federal court under the Clean Air or Clean Water acts and ask a judge to order polluters to get in compliance with federal law. That's the approach attorneys have taken with the incinerator, US Steel and other air polluters around Southwest Detroit.

Alternatively, they can sue in Michigan Circuit Court under the Michigan Environmental Protection Act of 1970, and ask a judge to declare a polluter a public nuisance. That approach is less common because plaintiffs can't recoup legal costs.

Another legal remedy is intervening in DTE Energy and other utilities' rate cases. A range of activists have successfully pressured regulators to force companies to limit rate increases and close coal plants, among other wins.

Meanwhile, activists are paying closer attention to the permitting process and making sure residents' voices are heard

One example this year was eastside residents living near the FCA plant who pressured EGLE to require FCA to install pollution controls as the factory expanded. Although EGLE ultimately ignored residents' demands, Gregg Newsom, a Detroit People's Platform organizer, highlighted it as an example of the community making regulators hear more than just the industry's voice.

'It's a life and death situation'

Until recent years, Southwest Detroit's Marathon Oil refinery polluted with near-carte blanche, spewing carcinogens while pumping out hundreds of tons of greenhouse gases annually, plaguing residential neighbors with respiratory disease and other ailments. The coke dust it piled on the Detroit River's shores blew across the region, dusting neighboring properties with the toxic substance.

But Marathon no longer operates with impunity. A coalition of neighborhood residents-turned-environmental activists have partnered with EJ groups and attorneys to confront the threat and hold Marathon to account.

Over the last four years, they forced Detroit policymakers to take a stand against Marathon and require it to cover loose piles of toxic coke dust piled on the Detroit River's banks. A year later, state regulators forced the company to install air filtration systems in a nearby school and provide real time air quality data.

Though litigation is ongoing, the wins are a sign of a shifting tide, and Martinez called it "a testament to the power of organizing" that's increasingly common in communities of color facing an outsize burden of pollution and climate change. During the last 10-15 years, the ranks of activists in these communities has swelled.

"When I came back to Detroit 12 years ago ... I could count with my right hand how many environmental justice activists there were in the city. In 2020? There are dozens of climate justice, environmental justice groups, organizations, hundreds, if not thousands, of people who are well informed, skilled and ready to make change."

Community involvement is critical, said Darryl Eley Jordan, senior organizer with the East Michigan Environmental Action Council (EMEAC), because residents drum up support in their own impacted neighborhoods in a way that outside groups, like lawyers, journalists and the established advocacy groups often can't.

Jordan highlighted EMEAC's outreach in neighborhoods around the incinerator, which helped locate residents who suffered from its toxic emissions.

"It takes people in the community to help others understand these issues in a language that they understand - that's how we build some power and keep politicians in line and responsive to our needs," Jordan said.

Meanwhile, established environmental groups are increasingly working with residents in impacted communities to determine priorities. Sierra Club attorney Elena Saxonhouse noted that the group now takes a "bottom up" approach in deciding which issues to tackle.

"[We] listen to what the communities we're working in want and go from there - it's not all top down. You can't just tell people 'you should care about coal plants,'" she said.

Martinez welcomes the new commitment of organizations like the Sierra Club to valuing the voices of the residents living these battles in their daily lives.

"The writing is on the wall, and it has perhaps not hit middle and upper- income white America in the same way," Martinez said. "The commitment to justice and to a cleaner, healthier environment belongs to those who breathe toxic air every day, because it's a life and death situation. It's not just a hobby or a pet interest."

Tom Perkins wrote this article for Planet Detroit.


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By Angela Burke for Civil Eats.
Broadcast version by Judith Ruiz-Branch for Illinois News Connection reporting for the Solutions Journalism Network-Public News Service Collaboration

A towering, two-story arch, trimmed in barrel tiles with an all-caps marquee, makes it very clear where you are: "BIENVENIDOS A LITTLE VILLAGE." The structure rises high above bustling 26th Street in Chicago's Little Village neighborhood, where independent restaurants, retails, and street vendors make it one of the highest-grossing commercial corridors in Chicago. This is the threshold of the Little Village neighborhood, home to many immigrants from Central America as well as the largest community of Mexican Americans in the Midwest.

At the base of the Little Village Arch, a group of protesters gathered earlier this month. Braced against the biting winter chill, they loudly decried the raids of immigrant communities ordered by the incoming Trump administration, which aimed to arrest and deport an estimated 2,000 immigrants across this sanctuary city, and more nationwide. In this climate, members of this tight-knit community must rely on each other now more than ever.

One of the strongest advocates for the neighborhood is the Little Village Environmental Justice Organization (LVEJO). For decades, the nonprofit has fought to protect Little Village's land, air, and the life in between. Its multifaceted, community-led food justice program includes hot meal dropoffs, backyard garden startups, and a new farm, just a few blocks from the arch, where fresh produce can be picked up for free. LVEJO is now also a landmark for Little Village.

Last December, LVEJO received the national Food Sovereignty Prize, awarded for "grassroots, agroecological solutions from the people most harmed by the injustices of the global food system," according to a press release from the U.S. Food Sovereignty Alliance. "I felt so glad that the Food Sovereignty Prize committee really got what the team was trying to do here," says LVEJO's deputy director, Juliana Pino. "It's not just about simply growing food. It's really about committing to the land, defending and protecting each other in the land, and showing up for a community in ways that are really rooted."

LVEJO's role in the local food system was years in the making, and it began with environmental activism. Pino recalls how, in 1994, a group of parents forced their local elementary school to restrategize renovation plans after some children suddenly became ill, likely from toxins released during the renovation process. That foundational group of parents would soon expand to include other community leaders and go on to tackle environmental injustices neighborhood-wide as Little Village Environmental Justice Organization.

Over its 30 years, LVEJO has shuttered two local coal power plants as well as an asphalt roofing manufacturer, Celotex, which was deemed a Superfund site by the U.S. Environmental Protection Agency and took the better part of a decade to remediate; now it is a 21-acre neighborhood park.

Viviana "Vivi" Moreno grew up near the neighborhood, hearing these stories. "I knew people whose family members were affected by the coal power plants," she says. In college, while elbow-deep in a detailed case study about LVEJO in her environmental health class, she fully connected the dots, and began to see "the legacy that polluting industries have in communities of color and immigrant communities of color."

Moreno joined LVEJO as a volunteer more than a decade ago, and has evolved alongside the organization. Now LVEJO's senior food justice organizer, she helps facilitate a multigenerational network of neighbors who offer essential insight on traditional farming practices and foodways. Pino sees the work as a multitiered form of sustenance: "A number of those folks . . . had a really hard time sustaining employment due to racism and disrespect for their skills and undervaluing the knowledge that they have. And on top of that, they were looking for ways to sustain the ancestral practices that they had back from their origin countries, as well as feed their families." Such cultural knowledge risks being lost if it isn't transferred to the next generation.

LVEJO's multi-pronged food justice program is offered free of cost and is communicated primarily through word of mouth. Eight food justice staff members and 50 to 80 volunteers run the program, which includes the pandemic-born Farm Food Familias project, created in collaboration with Getting Grown Collective. The project has served more than 50,000 meals so far, using produce donated by and purchased from local urban farms.

"What we noticed with this mutual aid program is that it wasn't just COVID, it was an economic issue," says Moreno. "A lot of folks lost their jobs because of either contracting long COVID or losing family members, and were having a hard time getting back to an economic space where they could provide for their families. So, that's where some of the meals came in and they were really beautiful and healing." Funding for Farm Food Familias and LVEJO's other food initiatives, as well as for the organization as a whole, comes largely from private foundations that have supported LVEJO for years, as well as individual donors.

Food justice staff member Taryn Randle organizes Backyard Gardens Little Village, a program that supplies residents with education and materials-including plants and garden beds-to activate their own gardens. About 20 homes participate so far. Meanwhile, Moreno is helping to develop a blossoming 1.3-acre greenspace, La Villita Park, which opened in 2014 on a portion of the converted Celotex site.

Semillas de Justicia (Seeds of Justice), a half-acre community garden and farm, sits just outside the park. A series of painted vignettes adorn the garden's fence: people gardening together, whimsical hearts, the landmark arch, and messages affirming the neighborhood's existence: "Defiende La Villita!" and "Let us breathe!"

During the growing season, Semillas' garden beds are fully occupied by 70 households. The adjoining vegetable farm hosts a weekly free farmers' market, offering produce freshly harvested from the site. LVEJO collaborates with community members in deciding what to grow, to ensure that the land offers agency to the people of the neighborhood while fortifying their connection to culture and heritage.

This includes several varieties of tomatoes, corn, beans, pumpkin, medicinal herbs, and edible flowers such as marigolds, a key element of Dia de los Muertos (Day of the Dead) celebrations in the fall. Last year, between the community garden and the farm, LVEJO collectively harvested and distributed nearly 16,000 pounds of produce and about 1,000 fresh eggs during a time when the price of eggs and other groceries had spiked.

LVEJO's farm manager, Nateo Carreño, says it isn't uncommon for elders to stroll by during the growing season and offer a hand. Every interaction is a chance to pass down ancestral knowledge, and sometimes, a pat on the back. Carreño recalls, "A señora just [told] us, 'I walked to the park to tell you guys that your potatoes taste like they have butter in them.'"

Both of Carreño's grandfathers were farmers, and Carreño sees the soil as a wonderland of living, breathing organisms that can heal itself over time if given the proper support. Years after being reclaimed and cared for by LVEJO, the soil here not only produces bountiful harvests, but also teems with beneficial bacteria like Mycobacterium vaccae, which get absorbed through the skin and trigger serotonin, the "happy hormone," in the brain. "I love soil, that's my jam," says Carreño. "There's just something in you that wakes up when you start working with plants and start working with soil."

For now, in the stillness of the winter, the land sleeps. Meanwhile, its caretakers keep planning. When the new season begins, LVEJO will continue to sow its mighty vision for Little Village.


Angela Burke Stevens wrote this article for Civil Eats.


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As U.S. government website purges continue, one nonprofit is racing to track and save as much data as possible.

The Open Environmental Data Project is one of several organizations working to preserve public access to federal climate science and environmental justice data and tools. Their efforts are a direct response to the Trump administration's orders to scrub government websites of information and references related to DEI and climate change, among other topics.

Katie Hoeberling, director of policy initiatives for the project, said people rely on data to support critical research, advocacy and policy, and litigation work.

"Everyone who has paid taxes in the last two decades helped create this information," Hoeberling pointed out. "So the fact that it's been taken down, not only is it kind of erasing the history of our country, it feels like theft."

In Illinois, environmental data has spurred action through such initiatives as the Climate and Equitable Jobs Act and policies to address environmental justice issues and climate change effects.

When it comes to environmental justice, Hoeberling acknowledged there are always multiple burdens but said climate science datasets and tools help aggregate key information to address them and serve as a widely accepted body of evidence to help hold polluters accountable, aid in climate-change planning and guide agencies in prioritizing funding for disadvantaged communities.

"The data removals are just part of this larger effort to not just stop supporting communities that need support but to hide the impacts that we are inevitably going to feel and are already feeling," Hoeberling contended.

Cathy Richards, data inclusion specialist for the project, said she tries to focus on how challenging times have presented an opportunity to rebuild in better ways.

"One of the big things that's in this process I've been thinking a lot about is developing platforms and data portals in ways that make it a lot easier for people to access things, a lot more resilient generally," Richards explained.

Along with focusing on high-priority federal website information, the project is looking at "lower-risk" data from nongovernment websites to save and house on its website. People can also nominate a website to be archived.


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Nearly 100 probationary workers for the Environmental Protection Agency in Chicago have had their jobs cut and then reinstated in the last month. They have also been ordered to close all environmental justice offices in the agency, affecting another 30 employees in the region.

The latest threat is the possible closure of the EPA's Office of Research and Development, which could mean firing more than 1,000 scientists and support staff.

Nicole Cantello, president of the American Federation of Government Employees Local 704, which represents workers in the six Great Lakes area states, said the changes have put public safety and the environment at risk.

"There really is a connection between EPA and saving lives," Cantello pointed out. "No one knows what we do until we stop doing it, and then they feel the effects. But there are EPA employees here in Chicago that are protecting you every single day."

Issues they cover include dangerous pollution in air and drinking water, and the environmental aftermath of disasters like train derailments or oil spills. The EPA is calling Tuesday a National Day of Action, with demonstrations planned in at least eight cities across the country.

Cantello noted the agency uses the rules set by its scientific research teams to monitor for air quality and water quality problems and alert the public.

"When the Trump administration takes away the scientists, they take away EPA's ability to address emerging environmental problems that haven't yet been studied but we use our scientists to tell us how to address," Cantello explained.

Cantello added proposed cuts could also affect the BEACH Act, which for more than two decades has covered EPA monitoring of coastal recreation waters. She stressed it would put the Great Lakes at risk.

"If we don't implement the BEACH Act anymore, then we won't be able to tell whether or not our beaches are safe," Cantello emphasized. "Especially from things like E. coli, which, lots of times, there's beaches shut down because of that."

The Trump administration called the cuts necessary to curb government waste and spending.


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