Bad Air Days

In 1981 we ran a story about pollution and disease in Southeast Texas. I went back to see if anything had changed. It had—but not for the better.

"I'M SORRY," HILTON KELLEY SAYS, letting out a dry, barking cough. "Ever since I moved back to Port Arthur three years ago I've had this." He gestures to his throat and coughs again.

I understand. I've been in Port Arthur for barely a day and I have a cough too. In fact, a lot of people I've run into in the Golden Triangle—the cities of Beaumont, Port Arthur, and Orange, along Texas' upper Gulf Coast—seem to have a barking cough. Maybe this is the result of pollen, but it is more likely the product of the region's notorious smog. In 1981 Harry Hurt III wrote about that smog and its potential health hazards in a Texas Monthly story titled "The Cancer Belt," in which he argued that the petrochemical plants and oil refineries in the area were causing more than just coughing. The lung-cancer death rate in Jefferson County (Beaumont and Port Arthur) at the time was 62.1 per 100,000, compared with 42 for the nation—a striking 48 percent difference. As its headline implied, Hurt's story made a compelling, if largely circumstantial, case that all that smoke belching from all those smokestacks accounted for the region's high cancer-mortality rates.

I have returned 22 years later to see if, given two decades of improved environmental regulation, research, activism, and awareness, the Cancer Belt should still be called that. Kelley runs an environmental group in Port Arthur and is one of many local residents who believe that it should. They say that air pollution from the plants and refineries continues to cause cancer at high rates. "Everyone here knows someone who has cancer or who has died of it recently, sometimes a child," Kelley tells me at a meeting of his Community In-power and Development Association. In fact, some five hundred area residents, including Kelley and many members of his group, are so upset that in late June they filed suit against six Port Arthur refineries, alleging that the companies' constant and often undocumented emissions have caused chronic health problems in their neighborhoods.

The pollution levels in the Golden Triangle these days are not reassuring. While emissions of most common pollutants are down as much as 50 percent or more since the late eighties, a significant part of that improvement is probably phantom. First, some chemicals that used to be measured have been "delisted," which automatically removes them from the statistics. Second, according to the Environmental Protection Agency (EPA), "fugitive" emissions from refineries—slow leaks from valves and pumps—may be five times greater than the plants detect or report. Third, according to Eric Schaeffer, a former EPA enforcement official who now heads the Washington, D.C.-based Environmental Integrity Project, there are chemical pollutants being released in the Golden Triangle that are not on the EPA's list, so they don't get measured. "I'd be skeptical of historical comparisons of emissions from the late eighties or early nineties," he says.

And while there may be an overall drop in pollutants, on any given day, levels of carcinogens in the air are often well over state and federal guidelines. When the Texas Commission on Environmental Quality (TCEQ) sampled the air around the Huntsman chemical plant and the Ameripol Synpol synthetic-rubber plant in Port Neches in 2000, its inspectors found levels of the carcinogen 1,3-butadiene that were nine times the state limit. (And remember, medical science still can't tell us how much, or how little, of the bad stuff it takes to actually cause cancer.)

Which may help to explain why residents of the Cancer Belt's six counties—Brazoria, Galveston, Harris, Jefferson, Montgomery, and Orange—are still dying of cancer at about the same rate that they were twenty years ago, according to a study by Texas Department of Health epidemiologist David Risser. In fact, the 2000-2002 average of the current cancer death rates in all six counties is actually 3 percent higher than the average from 1980 to 1982. And mortality rates for cancers commonly associated with industrial exposures are in some cases dramatically higher. In Orange County, for example, deaths from brain cancer have nearly quintupled since the eighties (none of the other counties saw an increase). And cancer isn't the half of it. A University of Texas Medical Branch at Galveston study last year found that, cancer aside, residents of Beaumont-Port Arthur were three to six times as likely to complain of respiratory, nervous system, skin, cardiovascular, urinary, and other illnesses than residents of Galveston Island, which tends to be less affected by the smog in the region. But in spite of the grim statistics, it is difficult, often impossible, to scientifically prove a cause-and-effect link between environmental conditions and cancer. That means it is almost impossible to win a lawsuit claiming that poor air quality is responsible for your disease.

Industry spokesmen aren't exactly voluble on the subject. To find out how much money the petrochemical industry has spent on pollution-control equipment, I had to call an official in Jefferson County who could do no better than "hundreds of millions of dollars." You would think the industry would be anxious to trumpet such expenditures. Tom Purves, the refinery manager of Motiva Enterprises, of Port Arthur, did get on the line to say, "We're on a path to making things cleaner. Motiva signed an agreement with the EPA to voluntarily put a lot of these things in place ahead of regulations. This is a significant investment." But that only raises the scary prospect that even with all the investment and regulation—even with lower documented emissions—we're still not making much progress.


Let's start with the notion of "regulation." Part of the problem is that, for all the agencies and laws that we have created, the petrochemical industry remains essentially self-regulated—and poorly at that. One of the refineries' chief methods of self-regulation is "flaring"—a procedure in which potentially dangerous accumulations of vapors are diverted and burned off. It can be effective if the vapors burn at 99 percent efficiency. But if a refinery has to flare too often

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