Where does our garbage go? After you take it out of your house into your bin and roll it to the curb, the garbage truck comes to get it and rolls on out of your neighborhood. But then, where does it go?
My grandchildren, each in their own ways, were obsessed with all things garbage when they were little. They were always on high alert for the sound of the garbage truck’s arrival. We bought toy garbage trucks along with little, tiny rolling bins that amused them (and us!) for hours. Being a “garbage man” was the top career choice for one for a while.
They also had a book called “Where Does the Garbage Go?” The book read, “When the last layer of soil is spread on top of a landfill, grass and trees are planted on top of it. The landfill becomes a park or a playground.” There were drawings of a colorful playground, full of happy children. This cheery book, with wonderful intentions, showed a happy ending to a stinky pile of trash.
That book stuck with my granddaughter, and she recently wrote her college thesis on where, in fact, the garbage went for many years in Chapel Hill.
Spoiler alert: There is no happy playground on top of your local landfill if you live in Chapel Hill.
Some lucky communities that are next to a landfill might get a park in exchange. But in reality, being a landfill host community is much messier. Promises like parks are made to communities, and are often broken. Certain communities, usually those already burdened by poverty and racism, bear the burden again and again.
Here’s a little local history: For generations, the land near what are now Rogers and Eubanks roads in Chapel Hill was home to a historically Black community composed of farms and sawmills. The Rogers-Eubanks Neighborhood Association’s website says, “It was beautiful land. The woods were untouched, the streams were full of fish, and there were all types of birds and wildlife.”
But in the 1970s, Chapel Hill needed a new landfill, and the town chose land in the Rogers Road community. The town government offered the community benefits to soften the weight of the landfill’s presence. At the time, it was unusual — almost unheard of — for communities to receive any sort of incentive for bearing the burden of environmental hazards.
In exchange for the landfill, the Rogers-Eubanks community would receive water and sewer hookups, taking them off well water and septic. It was a clear recognition that there was the potential for water pollution.
And there were other promises -- of paving roads and installing sidewalks. After 20 years, the landfill would be closed and a new site would be found. And indeed, on top of the landfill would be a park. At the heart of this agreement was Mayor Howard Lee, Chapel Hill’s first Black mayor and the first Black mayor of a majority-white Southern city since Reconstruction.
Mayor Lee knew the burden of the landfill would impact the community. Knowing this, he made a deliberate effort to engage with residents.
Despite Mayor Lee's good intentions and engagement, the repercussions came fast and hard. Trucks rolled through daily, and smells filled the air and homes. The tap water ran brown, laced with unsafe bacteria. Pests roamed the streets scavenging trash. Community members became sick.
Residents protested, but to no avail. In the 1990s, the landfill was expanded further into the community.
Then, after more than four decades — 42 years of bearing the unseen and too often ignored costs — the community won a rare and hard-earned victory. The landfill was closed in 2013. The town funded a community center, which is a vital hub for the neighborhood.
But problems plague the community. Many homes are still not connected to the water and sewer lines. Some residents bathe in contaminated well water and purchase bottled water for drinking and cooking. The promise of sidewalks was not fulfilled by the town of Chapel Hill. And indeed, there is no park.
So where does our garbage go these days? Now our garbage travels an hour and a half to Sampson County. And just like Rogers Road, it sits next to a historically Black community, already burdened by hog and poultry farms. This community was told the landfill would not grow, but what started as a 20-acre landfill is now over 1,000. Different place, same story.
Across the South and the nation, familiar patterns repeat: land once home to communities long pushed aside is now used for landfills, industry, or other unwelcome uses—too often without residents’ say.
We’ve got to come to terms with the fact that solutions are rarely simple. They’re almost never wrapped up in bright colors or easy endings, like those cheerful garbage trucks and parks on top of landfills in my grandkids’ book might suggest. The real work of solving problems isn’t neat or easy. It’s messy. It’s complicated. And it demands more than good intentions.
When we go looking for solutions—whether it’s in government, education, or how we deal with our stinky, dangerous trash—we can’t just ask, “What’s the fix?” We’ve got to ask, “Who’s being affected?” and just as importantly, “Are they being heard?”