By Jay Sinha
A few weeks ago, I was contacted by Rebecca Altman. She is an environmental sociologist and serves on the Board of Directors of the Science and Environmental Health Network. She studies environmental legacy – what is passed from one generation to the next – and is writing a book about the legacy of persistent pollutants.
She sent the following message with a link to an article she had just published: “Just wanted to share. I am the daughter of a former plastics maker. Now I’m an environmental sociologist who studies its legacy. I’ve published a piece that has been well-regarded and might be of interest to you, your network.”
I responded that yes, it is definitely of interest to me, and likely to our network as well. I’m so glad she shared.
The essay describes a visit Rebecca made with her father to the plastic plant where he worked for a decade making polystyrene.
This was not just any plastic plant. She calls it “the birthplace of modern plastics”.
The former Union Carbide plant in Bound Brook, New Jersey is where Leo Baekeland, inventor of the first synthetic plastic – Bakelite – commercially produced the bulk of his Bakelite, thus putting it out into mainstream society for use in everyday life.
This journey Rebecca takes with her father becomes a pilgrimange of sorts, with each of them reflecting on the powerful, lasting, toxic legacy of the plant and what it produced. Her father’s work was in the production of polystyrene, and unfortunately the legacy of polystyrene in Bound Brook is a cancerous one. This a poignant, deeply personal essay that deftly delves into issues affecting us all. I highly recommend it.
It really hit home for me because on the outskirts of our town – Wakefield, Quebec – there is a Styrorail manufacturing facility for polystyrene insulation.
“Against a stand of shrubs leaned a stone memorial to the town’s children lost to cancer. I counted 50 names etched in multiple fonts; more had probably died after the first had been inscribed. My father approached the stone and bowed his head. He seemed at prayer.I remember the Sundays I stood beside him in a church pew, how after communion, the congregation would join hands to recite the Lord’s prayer. Our Father, he would say, as he took my hand in his. Forgive us our trespasses. He would always hold on long after those final words.The wind coming off the river blows an empty Kwik Mart cup to my feet. I pick it up and trace the symbol imprinted on the plastic lid – arrows cycling around the letters PS – which tell me that the lid of the cup at the cancer memorial was made from polystyrene.”
