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Topics: Environment

Civic Environmentalism, continued

by Carmen Sirianni and Lewis Friedland
Copyright © 1995 by Carmen Sirianni and Lewis Friedland

Index

A Introduction
B. Citizen Participation in Environmental Regulation: the First Decade

The Origins
Who Represents the Citizens?
Social Learning and Capacity Building: the Challenges

C. The Emergence of Civic Environmentalism

Alternative Dispute Resolution
Risk and Democracy
Estuaries and Ecosystems
Sustainable Development

Emergence of a Grassroots Anti-Toxics Movement
Community Relations in Superfund
NIMBY & Beyond: Paradox & Promise-Democratic Participation
Community Empowerment and Public Policy for Democracy

E. References

Contents

Emergence of a Grassroots Anti-Toxics Movement
Community Relations in Superfund
NIMBY & Beyond: Paradox & Promise-Democratic Participation
Community Empowerment and Public Policy for Democracy

D. Environmental Justice and Community Empowerment

D.1. Emergence of a Grassroots Anti-Toxics Movement

By the mid-1970s, local labor and community activists began forming Committees on Occupational Safety and Health (COSHes) in cities across the country and documenting the extent of exposure to hazardous chemicals in workplaces. Their efforts had been facilitated by the research and legitimacy provided by the creation in 1970 of the Occupational Health and Safety Administration (OSHA), its affiliated National Institute of Occupational Safety and Health (NIOSH), and its accompanying citizen participation programs. In 1976 Congress passed two laws that set the framework for the overall regulation of toxics, the Toxic Substances Control Act (TSCA) and the Resource Conservation and Recovery Act (RCRA), both of which contained ambitious provisions for informing and involving the public.

But before EPA was able to set in place the enormously complex technical and administrative procedures for tracking, managing, and disposing of hazardous wastes, dramatic and widely publicized revelations of toxic exposures to the community in Love Canal, New York, appeared in the national media in the summer of 1978. The COSH movement soon began to forge links between workplace and community in its campaign for "right-to-know" laws at the state, and eventually the federal level. Grassroots groups sprung up in increasing numbers, especially in communities that were being considered for the siting of hazardous waste treatment facilities, or where contaminated dumpsites were discovered. Indeed, EPA's own campaign in 1979-80 for a Superfund law to support cleanup activities identified dumpsites in congressional districts across the nation, and thus helped spur grassroots mobilization (Hadden 1989; Rosenbaum 1983).

Over the course of the 1980s perhaps as many as ten thousand local groups, including many in poor and minority communities, had contacted or affilated with one of the two major networks in the toxics movement, the Citizens' Clearinghouse on Hazardous Waste(CCHW), founded by Love Canal housewife Lois Gibbs in 1983, and the National Toxics Campaign (NTC), founded by community organizer and asbestos survivor John O'Connor in 1984. Charles Cobb, who had been the chief architect of the Freedom Schools for SNCC during Mississippi Summer in 1964, led a massive nonviolent civil disobediance campaign against the siting of a polychlorinated biphenal (PCB) disposal landfill in a poor black county of North Carolina in 1982. And as executive director of the United Church of Christ's Commission For Racial Justice he spearheaded the effort to document "environmental racism"—some of which was itself the by-product of more stringent regulation and the empowerment of some communities to resist toxic dumping more effectively than others.

In 1991 the First National People of Color Environmental Leadership Conference in Washington, D.C. convened over six hundred delegates from local groups and regional networks emerging across the country. This movement of "radical environmental populism," as Andrew Szasz calls it, has continued to grow, and to expand its issues to include hospital wastes, lead poisoning and military toxics. Some adopt nonthreatening civic names like the Concerned Citizens of South Central Los Angeles or Native Americans for a Clean Environment. Others, like a Puerto Rican group in Brooklyn, are El Puente Toxic Avengers. In either case they are deeply angered not only by the threat to their communities and their children, but by the injustice and stigma that seem to be systematically imposed on them (Szasz 1994; Bullard 1993).

Grassroots groups emphasized community empowerment, and this created serious stresses for the limited forms of pluralist representation that had emerged in the 1970s (Williams and Matheny 1995). Crises of representation manifest themselves at several levels. First, the emerging toxics movement perceived environmentalism as having become enmeshed in the procedural intricacies and political intrigues of judicial hearings, legislative lobbying and bureaucratic rule-making, and thus unable to articulate the concerns of real communities—especially poor, minority and working class communities—in the face of direct threats to their health and the well being of their neighborhoods. Secondly, local protest began to block virtually all attempts to site hazardous waste disposal facilities, which are an essential ingredient of any effective strategy for managing toxics, including ones that would stress reduction and enhance democracy (Mazmanian and Morell 1992). This veto occured even in those states that made efforts to include representatives of established groups like the Sierra Club and state environmental coalitions on the state siting boards. In some states, the tensions between the grassroots community groups and environmentalists who participated in the pluralist representational frameworks were severe.

Thirdly, what Williams and Matheny call the communitarian language that informed much of the grassroots mobilization could often simply not be comprehended by the managerialist language of expertise or the pluralist language of due process. The cultural rationality that frames the perception of hazards in threatened communities, and that respects questions about fear and fairness, finds no resonance in the technical rationality of statistical risk assessment and cost-benefit analysis, and too often only a faint echo in the narrowly construed voice of pluralist representation and regulation. Indeed, officials managing the hazards can produce their own forms of "toxic talk" designed to intimidate, confuse and silence those communities that apply norms of cultural rationality within representational frameworks such as the public hearings mandated by law at Superfund sites (Hadden 1991; Perrow 1985; Kaminstein 1989; Highlander n.d.).

In the next section, Community Relations in Superfund, we examine some of the dynamics of grassroots protest, EPA learning, and policy failure that has been apparent in toxics.

D.2. Community Relations in Superfund

The community relations effort was led by Steven A. Cohen, a theoretically informed political scientist whose Ph.D. dissertation had highlighted the limits of recent citizen participation in environmental and water quality planning. Cohen stressed the need for broader community representation, more active mechanisms of linkage between citizens and the bureaucracy, substantive rather than purely symbolic participation, and independent power bases outside the citizen participation programs themselves. The employee-owned consulting firm, ICF, Inc., which had developed much experience in this area, elaborated a methodology for organizational learning within EPA that built upon the experiences of the past decade, and included an innovative community interview process in the basic framework of developing Community Relations Plans for individual sites where extended remedial response was necessary. The methodology was itself developed through community interviews in 21 existing participatory programs under the Clean Water Act, and incorporated the insights of citizen activists, civic leaders, local officials, and environmental groups at each site.

Community relations was envisioned as an integral part of cleanup efforts, even though analyses of risk, available technologies and costs posed many complex problems that could too easily justify technocratic approaches. The ICF report strongly discouraged purely technical solutions, to which some EPA staff were predisposed, and also counselled against limiting contacts with existing environmental and civic groups. It anticipated the major contours of the grassroots toxics movement and its networks, and urged that EPA reach out actively to ad hoc local groups, respect the insight and political savvy of its largely female leadership, and establish formal relations with its emergent national organization even before the CCHW had formed. It urged early and continuous public participation with full access to information, and specified mechanisms beyond the often ineffectual public hearings that could make this work. It even recommended that all private engineering firms working on analysis and cleanup be required to interact with the public under EPA supervision. ICF recognized many of the problems that citizen participation might pose for EPA, but urged that the agency establish self-critical evaluation mechanisms to confront and resolve these, since this was the only reasonable way to develop technically appropriate, cost effective, and politically legitimate reponses to a problem whose enormity was just beginning to be understood (ICF, Inc. 1981; Cohen, Ingersoll and Janis 1981; Cohen 1979).

This impressive start within Community Relations (CR) during the drafting period and initial days of Superfund involved various stakeholders in reflecting on the lessons of the past, and anticipated quite presciently many of the problems posed by the grassroots activism that exploded in the 1980s. But it was disrupted by the hostility of Superfund's first director appointed by President Reagan. Community Relations, unlike other participatory programs, survived, but only by being bureaucratically downgraded and camouflaged, and Cohen and others felt compelled to resign.

But participatory learning within EPA was blocked by more fundamental problems within the agency and the broader environmental arena, as well as in the specific policy design that predated Reagan. The bureaucratic culture of EPA had not been substantially impacted by participatory programs, and it was deeply wedded to a top-down regulatory approach. Civic environmental capacities were only beginning to emerge at the state and local level, and had no coherent intellectual or scholarly support. And the crisis at Love Canal gave administrator Costle an opportunity to press for a major grant of legislative authority to implement his new "public health" strategy based on statistical risk rather than on empowering communities to improve life in the actual places where they live.

Thus, EPA refused to consider a policy design based on grants to the states, which would then have had to: 1) engage local communities in a discussion of cleanup strategies that were cost effective and fair, in view of the relative risks to various communities and the overall funds available, and 2) pressure them to take more responsibility to manage their hazardous waste problems (Landy, Roberts, and Thomas 1990, 133-171). The possibilities for a policy design that would foster civic education and democratic accountability in ways that complemented the participatory learning within the water programs and the CR planning process were thus lost, as each community was encouraged to clamor for the most expensive cleanup possible, regardless of costs and equity.

This option was also stalemated in Congress because of an ideologically polarized framing. Liberals wanted a big federal program as the only speedy and effective way to respond to a perceived national crisis; and conservatives wanted a program run by the states not in order to bring cleanup decisions closer to local communities and build capacities for responsible choice, but primarily to reduce the scale of the program (Hird 1994, 230-31). Neither of the parties, nor the interest groups that mobilized behind them, had any sense of a richer and more complex civic approach. Only the Cohen team within CR, which catalyzed a self-conscious learning process among actors at the local program level, seemed to be able to glimpse the outlines of an alternative. In addition, Congress passed the Superfund bill without explicit mandates for citizen participation beyond public comment at rulemaking proceedings, thus limiting community input and making community relations efforts more vulnerable to political and budgetary attacks (Folk 1991; Wagner 1993; Becker 1988).

Given the deep sense of violation and outrage in contaminated communities, the many uncertainties associated with toxic wastes, and the challenges inherent to builing new administrative frameworks that could link federal, state, and local officials, the relationship between local citizens and administrators responsible for remedial action would inevitably have been a difficult one. But the flaws of program design, the lack of explicit citizen participation mandates, and the disruption of critical learning and organizational support in Community Relations in its earliest years under Reagan and then again as Superfund expired and its reauthorization was deadlocked in Congress, resulted in bureaucratic responses that were often further disempowering to local communities. Officials developed defensive postures to avoid causing further alarm, committing unavailable resources, encouraging unrealistic expectations, or creating additional legal liability. Information was often withheld or presented in unnecessarily mystified technical terms, thus breeding further mistrust, dependence and rage among local residents.

Even as well meaning Community Relations staff tried to do effective outreach, they remained subordinate to technical staff, who dominated public meetings and sometimes were not even aware of what the Community Relations Plan entailed. Communication was often a one-way affair, and chances for public voice were delayed and discontinuous, and not linked to actual decision making processes. The initial interviews and the development of the Community Relations Plan often did not occur until 3-4 years after a site had been placed on the Superfund list, and the next mandated chance for formal public comment came several years after this. No wonder that local residents felt that the agency was deliberately keeping them in the dark. Community Relations staff were themselves relatively low status within the EPA, with few chances of mobility or access to real authority, and turnover was thus high (Edelstein 1988; Folk 1991; Kaminstein 1989).

But the newly energized protest by both national and grassroots environmental groups that helped drive Gorsuch and Lavelle from office also compelled EPA to expand and refine the Community Relations program over the next decade, in effect renewing the institutional learning process that had been so promising before it was disrupted. The Environmental Defense Fund, for instance, developed a two-pronged strategy. First it brought suit against the EPA for missing the statutory deadline of June 1981 for revising the National Contingency Plan (the basic framework for Superfund), which was to have included citizen participation provisions. The Congressional Office of Technology Assessment later criticized the EPA for having "rejected every recommendation to expand public participation procedures outlined in the draft NCP" (Becker 1988: 54).

The EDF then helped mobilize at the grassroots, convening a meeting of 31 local groups from 22 different Superfund sites, who subsequently developed a set of minimum guidelines for citizen participation. These included opportunities to help develop the Community Relations Plan itself, to participate from the beginning to the end of the entire process, to have early and complete access to all information and a local document depository at each site. They also included opportunities to hire independent technical experts of their own choosing with agency funds, to have strengthened public hearings requirements, as well as complementary small group workshops and informal meetings for meaningful education beforehand, and to have full access to all relevant administrators and consultants and a regional toll-free hotline (Wagner 1983).

The EDF also published a Citizen's Guide to the Superfund Program, and other established groups like the Sierra Club, the National Wildlife Federation, and the League of Women Voters provided important resources for civic education and local activism. Technical and organizational assistance from the Citizens Clearinghouse and the National Toxics Campaign further helped empower local groups in their dealings with the EPA. Political mobilization helped ensure that Superfund was reauthorized, with considerably greater funding and strengthened provisions for public participation and the right-to-know.

The Superfund Amendments and Reauthorization Act (SARA) of 1986 mandated public input on the selection of all plans for cleanup by means of public meetings and comment periods on proposals, as well as agency responsibility to detail the range of possible alternatives and provide reasonable explanations for choices made and responses to significant comments, criticisms and new data submitted by the public. Technical Assistance Grants (TAGs) of up to 50,000 dollars were to be made available to local community groups to hire independent experts, and these could be renewed "to facilitate public participation at all stages of remedial action." SARA also contained a provision permitting any person to bring suit against any party, including the EPA, alleged to be in violation of CERCLA (Environmental Law Reporter 1989).

Even before the strengthened legal mandates for local participation contained in SARA, however, EPA had begun to respond to grassroots pressure. Ruckelshaus was asked to return to restore the legitimacy of the agency, and Lee Thomas was appointed to head the RCRA and Superfund programs, and then to head the agency itself when Ruckelshaus stepped down after Reagan's reelection in 1984. The Community Relations staff was expanded continually over the next few years and absorbed some of those who had developed years of experience and insight from other EPA participation programs. The guidelines developed by local groups at their meeting with EDF became a basis for internal EPA discussion, as EDF and other environmental groups were given more direct access to staff. And innovative programs for "toxic town meetings" and Integrated Environmental Management Projects were developed.

The agency explicitly renewed its commitment to the "strength of participatory democracy," and thoroughly revised the Community Relations Handbook used to guide local practice. Pointed questioning at Senate confirmation hearings prompted William Reilly, the subsequent EPA chief during the Bush administration, to review Superfund systematically, with input invited from environmental groups, and to further integrate community relations programs into every phase of the cleanup process (Office of Emergency and Remedial Response1988; EPA Journal, December 1985).

Much remains to be done to enable Community Relations to empower citizens and to recognize the role of "popular epidemiology" in the struggle against toxic contamination, which can not only threaten public health but can divide, demoralize and disable local communities themselves (Brown and Mikkelsen 1990). As long as many of the innovative aspects of Community Relations are not mandated but discretionary, and budgets remain tight, we can expect staff to ration attention to communities and groups that clamor the most—a familiar dynamic in street-level bureaucracies and one that is explicitly recognized in staff guidelines—and to emphasize legitimation over education and empowerment. In addition, as we will discuss below, major flaws still remain in legislative design that impede responsible civic action and community deliberation about risks, costs, and equity.

Despite these limitations, however, it is clear that recent EPA guidelines have incorporated insights generated from grassroots efforts to empower local communities. Administrator Reilly's directives, as well as the subsequently further revised Community Relations Handbook (Office of Emergency and Remedial Oesponse 1992), stresses that Community Relations should be integrated into every phase of remedial action, and that all staff, including technical staff and project managers, should be trained to communicate with local residents, learn to speak in the vernacular, make themselves available for high-quality public contact, and collaborate in teams with the Community Relations staff themselves.

Community interviews detailing the history of local concerns and community involvement, and including the perspectives of those most vocal and active, have become a requirement for all Community Realtions Plans, and they should explicitly inquire as to how residents would like to be involved throughout the process. Communication with local residents is to begin early at all sites and remain regular throughout, even if only one-fourth to one-third of the sites will warrant extensive programs of community involvement. Technical findings should be discussed as they are developed, and documents made available throughout, and not just at formal comment periods.

Information repositories containing all relevant documents are to be set up in local libraries or other convenient locations, toll-free hotlines can be provided by regional offices, and observation decks can be installed at the sites themselves to allow citizens to monitor the cleanup process. Communication should be bilingual wherever necessary, and access for the handicapped must be provided. Fact sheets, notices of informal meetings, open houses and community work groups, should be available not only in required newspapers, but through the mailings of local community and environmental groups themselves, who thus have greater opportunity to do aggressive outreach and education.

Official public meetings in some EPA regions have been hosted by civic groups themselves, such as the League of Women Voters, which has offered a Jeffersonian rationale for strengthening EPA staff training for citizen involvement and civic education, and to increase funding to make these possible. And even if EPA itself hosts the meeting, the Handbook urges that community groups should be asked to help draw up the agenda. Communication should not be a one-way process, and large public meetings should experiment with different formats, or be complemented by small group meetings to ensure genuine dialogue in a nonintimidating and nonhierarchical fashion.

Staff must be willing to change plans in response to community objections, which have admittedly saved EPA from important mistakes in the past, and its responsiveness summaries should be candid and comprehensible. Regional offices have developed staff supports to help community groups apply for Technical Assistance Grants, and the matching fund requirement has been lowered from thirty-five percent to twenty percent, though this can be met with the provision of in-kind services or waived entirely. The initial community interview process should inform local residents of the availability of such grants.

These guidelines clearly reflect a dynamic of institutional learning that has responded to challenges and perspecives generated in communities across the country—a process that was envisioned in the original Community Relations design. When we discuss environmental justice below, we will look at further developments in the Clinton administration under administrator Browner, and the remaining challenges of capacity building and policy design.

In the next section, NIMBY and Beyond: the Paradox and Promise of Democratic Participation, we examine the NIMBY phenomenon and participatory innovations that demonstrate substantial promise to modify it.

D.3. NIMBY and Beyond: the Paradox and Promise of Democratic Participation

For increasing numbers of scholars in risk analysis and toxics regulation, community participation has become the key ingredient for the development of successful policies. But as Kent Portney points out, the near universal failure to site hazardous waste facilities in recent years reveals perhaps a more profound dilemma for democracy than its proponents would admit. The dilemma, stated simply, is that without democratic participation by the community, there can be no effective siting; yet with such participation, there also seems to be no siting. Various models of state preemption or local consultation have proven to be a myth, as communities have still effectively resisted new sites. Local participation has not lent legitimacy to the process of siting unless the results coincide with the participants' desire to prevent such siting in their communities—an understandable reaction in view of the skewed distribution of local risks and broader social benefits.

Various trust-building mechanisms, such as mediation, do not seem to alter this. The main dilemma seems to stem from the fact that the expectation of participatory democratic theorists that participation would build capacities for responsible self-governance is one that requires relatively long-term ongoing citizen engagement to manifest itself, while the participation generated by siting plans is more likely to be manifest in intense, conflictual and often hastily called meetings with a high turnover of participants from one occasion to the next. The educative effects of participatory democracy, in other words, can not be produced soon enough to alter the dynamics of siting (Portney 1990, 1991).

Other models, however, seem to offer more hope than would appear from Portney's analysis. Several provinces in Canada have moved in the direction of participatory and comprehensive strategies for siting hazardous waste facilities. As Barry Rabe's (1992,1993, 1994; also Paehlke and Torgerson 1992) analysis of programs in Alberta, Manitoba and Quebec shows, successful siting that breaks the NIMBY gridlock so common in much of the United States and Canada contains several common elements. The first is early and extensive public participation, including hundreds of meetings hosted by provincial environmental officials in local communities to explain the extent of the problem and the risks of illegal dumping. These are followed by continued formal and informal opportunities for voice, as other aspects of the process are explained and applications to host a facility are solicited.

In Alberta, for instance, several dozen communities expressed interest, and these were eventually narrowed down via a process of mutual education between community residents and provincial officials about the risks involved and the suitability of the local ecology. Five remaining communities held plebescites with large voter turnout, and two supported siting by substantial margins, including the Swan Hills community ultimately chosen, with 79 percent in favor. In conjunction with the Environmental Council of Alberta, the government-funded though generally autonomous citizen-involvement organization that designed the original process, the local community has elaborated further roles for formal and informal participation among residents, provincial authorities, and the crown and private corporations that manage the facility.

Because of the extensive participation, citizens have come to take great pride in being partners in the waste management process, and have come to share with environmental officials the view that it is morally offensive (and economically risky) to displace the problem onto other provinces, states across the border, or vulnerable communities in less developed countries. Civic responsibility of this sort can emerge in the siting process, but only if siting is part of a voluntary process, and citizens are offered reassurances against further exploitative practices and there is burden sharing among other communities.

Several other components reinforce these educative processes:

• control of imports and exports of wastes within provincial boundaries
• comprehensive strategies for reducing, recycling, transporting and educating throughout the province
• compensation to communities that includes financial support to hire their own consultants to scrutinize proposals and monitor facilities
• permanent offices and space available to the community for public meetings
• a commitment to translate technical issues into everyday language
• public/private partnerships that give public authorites a stake in successful and safe operation

There were serious bumps in the participatory process along the way. The original task force was compelled to resign because it seemed to be rushing the process and relied too much on large public meetings where ordinary citizens were intimidated by vocal opponents. Local citizens of Swan Hills mobilized against the siting, but they also committed themselves to participating in at least two public meetings before the plebescite, where all relevant local and provincial officials were available to discuss any aspect of the proposal. "We became taxi drivers, dishwashers, babysitters, whatever it took to get everyone out," said a former official. "We divided up the phone book and called everyone in town."

Groups such as Greenpeace came to Swan Hills to oppose the facility, but did not find a very receptive audience. As the director of the local environmental group, Friends of the Environment in Swan Hills (FRESH), put it, "they never came here except for the big hearing, they never showed any interest in working with our group, they never provided facts to back up any of their claims, even when we asked them to, and they never offered any solution to the waste problem other than storage. What kind of solution is that?" (Rabe 1994: 69).

While the various components of siting are unevenly developed among these three Canadian provinces, and more needs to be done to democratize management and implementation, they have provided a participatory approach that is integrated around core values of democratic voice, just distribution and moral responsibility. As one local officil puts it, "now, I can say where the waste in my house, my town, and my province goes. Most people in Canada and the U.S. can't say that. Most haven't a clue."

As a result of the participatory process, Swan Hills is becoming much more a community of neighborhoods, rather than of transient rental housing and mobile parks, and sees itself as a new center for the development of waste management technologies. Our interviews among Canadian consultants working on other participatory programs in Alberta indicate that the lessons of the siting process are now being utilized to deal with other seemingly intractable problems in the province, such as health costs. And it is clear that the Alberta process has been key to social learning in other provinces, such as Manitoba, where the public participation components are even stronger, and in the United States. (See Barry Rabe's Beyond NIMBY: Collaborative Approaches to Hazardous Waste Management.)

We can only draw tentative conclusions about how transferable the Alberta model might prove to be, however. The attempt to copy it in Minnesota eventually collapsed, though it did help bring about a much greater state focus on waste reduction. Part of this is clearly due to the less extensive participation facilitated by state officials, as well as less comprehensive compensation packages and other factors. But it is not clear how much the relative ease of siting in Alberta was due to the weak presence of organized environmental groups in local and provincial regulatory politics, and the relative dominance of industry. Transferring this model to the United States would present distinctive challenges. In the U.S. the political culture of environmentalism has been more conflictual, more effective claims for pluralist representation within regulatory structures can be pressed, and grassroots toxics groups are more well organized and networked (Rabe 1993: 639-40).

A model that was developed in California, where environmental groups are well organized at all levels, also seemed to have much promise, until it was undermined by a ruling of the California Department of Health Services (DHS) in 1987. Some, however, still see promise for reviving it (Mazmanian and Morell 1992, 1994). The underlying philosophy seeks principles of equity and justice in the shift from NIMBY to YIMBY, or "Yes, In Many Backyards," and attempts to implement this through open dialogue and comprehensive planning at the level of each of the state's 58 counties. Professionals are to guide the process according to principles worked out over several years among all the leading interests in toxics policy in the early 1980s. These principles include debate based as much as possible on the basis of scientific analysis and facts, and free of the kind of conjecture that has distorted communication in the past. Dialogue, however, is to be open to relevant policy experts in various fields, including environment, healthcare, business, government and technology, and to include considerable input from communities and organized interest groups. Local officials are to have a voice in the new state board, which would have the authority to hear appeals and override any local facility-siting decision.

Under the threat of future sanctions, all 58 counties prepared plans, and these included strong emphasis on source reduction as a necesaary component of counties equitably and rationally managing their waste. A conservative governor and the waste industry resisted implementation because the planned equity approach was seen as violating free market principles and economies of scale. The DHS ruling basically gutted the fair share provisions, and opened counties to a nonvoluntary siting of large facilities independent of their own waste management needs. The result has been no new facilities, intense conflict at each new proposed site, and reliance on a vast export of California wastes to 35 other states and a number of foreign countries (Rabe 1994: 118-121).

D.4. Community Empowerment and Public Policy for DemocracyIf the citizen participation programs that emerged in the first decade or so of the public lobby regulatory regime were a very incomplete response to the crises of legitimacy and representation of the New Deal regulatory system, perhaps in no area was this more evident than in the regulation of toxics. Grassroots protest made manifest distinct crises of representation at each of four levels:

1. Mobilized communities challenged both regulatory agencies and established environmental groups to become more inclusive of those who did not find easy representation in national rulemaking, state siting decisions, or public lobbying. And they confronted them on their inability to hear the voices of specifically threatened geographic communities, especially if these represented predominantly poor, working class and minority populations whose most vocal activists were outraged mothers and housewives;
2. Grassroots groups challenged bureaucrats at EPA and state environmental agencies, as well as staff of the national and state environmental organizations, to be accountable to the specific constituencies and communities that were being asked to assume the burden of risks, or who had already had these imposed against their will and without their knowledge. They demanded clear explanations and genuine input—in many cases even veto power—rather than evasive responses, distant representation and symbolic voice;
3. Ordinary citizens and community groups challenged administrators to provide resources so that they could participate in complex and technical decisions with insight, and so they could reduce their dependence on the experts provided by government and industry;
4. And they challenged the language used, the discourses of technical rationality and cost-benefit analysis in risk assessment, and compelled administrators and the broader public to hear their stories—the stories of communities contaminated and children poisoned.

The grassroots movement that developed in the 1980s, and has involved as many as 10,000 local groups at one time or another, has been a driving force for the expansion of participation. It has had a major impact in framing the issue in terms of racial justice (Bullard 1994; Capek 1993; Cole 1992), and provoked a crisis of representation within the mainstream environmental movement that has led to a greater stress on minority staff recruitment and issue focus (Jordan and Snow 1992). Its national campaign for the Emergency Planning and Community Right-to-Know Act (EPCRA) of 1986 established a Toxics Release Inventory (TRI) that has encourged local involvement, and the development of local and national support networks to assist citizens in utilizing this geographically-organized database (Hadden 1989; Valelly 1993, 255-59). Such information rights have enhanced the power of citizens in legal and regulatory channels, as well as in the court of local public opinion, and have helped to encourage greater voluntary compliance by corporations and "good neighbor agreements" between them and community groups (Cohen and O'Connor 1990; O'Connor 1994).

These agreements have built new bases of trust within broader civic networks. The Good Neighbor Project for Sustainable Industries assists localities throughout the United States to promote clean and safe industrial jobs. It encourages workers, plant neighbors, and environmentalists to collaborate to promote both ongoing, incremental improvements and dramatic innovations at local industries. It utilizes diverse approaches, including new partnerships and institutions, community organizing, and dialogue with a firm's shareholders and insurers.

A range of other innovative policies have emerged in recent years for transforming corporate environmental cultures and embedding production decisions within broader social norms and civic networks. These include whole facility regulation and pollution prevention planning to creative uses of Employee Right-To-Know and Community Right-To-Know laws (Roy 1988, 1992).

Building upon its previous experience within the Superfund Community Relations program, the EPA has also begun to develop an impressive strategy for multi-sided participatory learning. This was made possible by administrator Reilly's initial opening of channels to environmental justice leaders, and their appointment to the environmental transition team and the National Environmental Justice Advisory Council (NEJAC) under President Clinton and administrator Browner. Indeed, in the mid-1980s Browner herself had served as the first Washington lobbyist of the National Toxics Campaign, the movement group with the most farsighted understanding of the challenges of environmental democracy at the grassroots and in regulatory institutions, and a key mobilizer of popular support for the passage of EPCRA (Cohen and O'Connor 1990; O'Connor 1994).

The Office of Pollution Prevention and Toxics at EPA has funded the establishment of an independent RTK-Net to assist citizen groups. (See Right-to-Know Network ) It has even encouraged trade associations to buy computers for community groups so that both sides can use the TRI to engage in a common inquiry about relative hazards and alternative responses. It has funded programs to teach high school students in environmental studies and chemistry courses how to utilize TRI data for community problem solving.

And the Office of Pollution Prevention and Toxics has developed a series of projects that help build the civic and informational capacities of trade associations, employers and workers to prioritize hazards, and develop cost-effective production alternatives. Such projects are voluntary and participatory. EPA staff do not control projects, but help mobilize assets and insights existing within industry communities, from donated machinery and materials for testing to self-organized focus groups that develop strategies to diffuse best practices. Such projects recognize those in industry as civic actors capable of making informed and responsible choices about how to protect the environment of their local communities and the health of their workers (Topper 1994b, 1995). We have included several of these cases, and plan to work with the office in following their further development, as well as a new pilot project to develop a comprehensive community-based strategy to reduce toxics in an eastern city beginning in 1995:

Design for Environment Printing Project: Printing Trades Collaborate
to Reduce Toxics.

Dry Cleaning Industry Partners with EPA and Public Interest Groups to Reduce Toxics.

Microelectronics Industry Partners with EPA, Environmental and Public Interest Groups to Reduce Toxics.

Remaining Challenges

Nonetheless, there are serious obstacles to overcome if more consistenly deliberative and collaborative policy approaches are to become more robust. These exist at the level of capacity building and problem framing within the environmental justice movement itself, as well as in policy design, administrative support, and corporate culture. Some of these are:

1. There exists profound resistance, sometimes bordering on incomprehension, within the environmental justice movement to the notion that responsible civic action involves choices about relative risk, limited funds, and opportunity costs. This is quite understandable in view of the nature of toxics and the disproportionate burdens on communities of color. And it has been exacerbated by the policy design of Superfund and top-down hazardous waste facility siting. But toxics movement organizers often encourage individual communities to believe that the immediate and most expensive resolution of a problem is the only acceptable and just one, regardless of the impact this may have on other worthy resource and justice claims for reducing toxic hazards (Smith 1994). Or they propagate NIABY ("Not In Anyone's Backyard") as a response to every local facility siting (Citizens Clearinghouse on Hazardous Waste 1993). The latter tends to undermine the search for siting procedures that are based on extensive public participation and burden sharing, which have advanced considerably in recent years, as we have discuss in the previous section.

The former tends to block a Superfund policy revision that would be based on block grants to states, which could then develop citizen committees to determine cleanup priorities among competing claims (Hird 1994; Landy, Roberts, and Thomas 1990). Such an approach could be informed by the environmental justice criteria that have been developed, and could benefit by the kinds of capacity-building EPA grants that have been created and expanded over the past few years. But it would not be compatible with the absolutist tendencies of some of the national toxics organizations.

The Office of Environmental Justice recognizes these tensions, and sees itself engaged in a protracted process of mutual learning with the leaders of these organizations, as well as with community groups themselves, who tend to be more pragmatic and problem-oriented once participatory and capacity-building opportunities are made available (Knox 1994; Gaylord 1994). The movement's leadership, however, has much greater leverage in the national arena, and relatively limited community organizing capacities at state and local levels, and thus potentially has much to lose in such a Superfund redesign. And its current mobilizational capacities depend on a rhetoric that fits uneasily with a civic educational strategy that recognizes relative risk, opportunity costs, and competing justice claims.

Some scholars see these problems as quite profound. Landy and Hague (1992), for instance, argue that Superfund persists in its current form, despite its widespread recognition as a policy failure, because national environmental groups, as well as the legal community and the waste industry, have developed a major stake in it. Superfund liability constitutes one of the two most important sources of new business for major law firms, and consumes a very large share of Superfund dollars (90 percent of all monies spent by insurers in the program, according to one Rand Corporation study). The waste industry benefits by gold-plated, "Cadillac" treatment solutions, and has joined national environmental groups in blocking reform.

National environmental groups, for their part, have more clearly definable organizational interests in continued grassroots mobilization than they do in actual progress on cleanup or on building civic capacities for problem solving. Indeed, disappointed expectations on site cleanup are often more useful in generating the public outcry that sustains their membership base and political clout. And whatever the failings of Supefund in solving real problems and starving other worthy problem-solving activities at the local level, it serves does serve to mobilize. As Landy and Hague (1992: 76-77) note, "Superfund provokes community uproar by proclaiming that health hazards exist within its midst. It encourages political mobilization because its generous cleanup monies are only available to those communities that are able to get their site named to the federal list of approved sites. And it feeds antibusiness sentiment by proclaiming that cleanup will be paid for by the polluters or by their virtual surrogate, the chemical industry." In addition, permanent treatment requirements in the 1986 reauthorization create unattainable standards, whose very unattainability provides a permanent mobilizing tool.

Civic environmental groups, such as Save the Bay in Rhode Island and Massachusetts, and others that have taken a broader place-driven approach to a whole range of environmental hazards, including waste sites, perceive the waste and counterproductiveness of much of Superfund in helping communities build capacities to solve problems and build collaboration. But these views do not have a strong national lobby.

2. While the civil rights framing of the toxics issue has proven essential to enhancing participation of communities of color, it also has a tendency to trump deliberative democratic approaches. This manifests itself in the theoretical underdevelopment of the latter within the movement (Hofrichter 1993; Bullard 1993, 1994), and in the practical tendency to choose bureaucratic rule making and judicial intervention over dialogue and negotiation, even when minority communities themselves are divided over the relative risks and benefits of a specific decision, such as a hazardous waste facility siting or the extent of cleanup needed for a specific use by the community. EPA procedures include conciliation efforts based on public dialogue, and various sectors of the community often support this. But environmental justice strategies often seek substantive outcomes based on these other methods (Schneider 1993; EPA 1994, 11).

3. More robustly deliberative and collaborative problem solving methods require participation that is embedded in other community-based institutions, and is more continuous and broader in scope. Involvement through fleeting, ad hoc toxics groups mobilized over highly charged issues does not tend to have the requisite educative effects of participatory democracy (Portney 1991) or permit their communitarian perspectives to grapple with complex regulatory issues (Williams and Matheny 1995).

Local toxics groups, as well as the models of organizing propagated by their major networks, tend to cluster at the "thinner" end of the spectrum of the community organizing tradition (Cohen and O'Connor 1990; Gibbs 1983), and seldom provide the depth of institutional relationships, leadership training, or civic education that one finds in some of the major community organizing networks, such as the Industrial Areas Foundation (Boyte 1990; Rogers 1990). Some leaders, such as John O'Connor (1994), have recognized this, but have been unable to do much about it. The problem is the legacy of a movement that has experienced rapid growth in a context of responding to perceived emergencies in many different kinds of communities, and whose resources have always been stretched very thinly relative to the demand on them.

The participatory fundamentalism of some organizations, however, has often exacerbated its capacity building problems, though this must also be understood in the context of its extended exclusion from regulatory institutions, mainstream environmental groups, and community organizing networks until relatively recently. Indeed, invoking the heritage of Ella Baker, who inspired participatory democracy in both the black and white student movements of the 1960s, CCHW proclaims proudly that it cannot speak on behalf of others (Citizens Clearinghouse on Hazardous Wastes 1993: 10-12). It thus rejected overtures to negotiate mutually acceptable policies by both the McDonald's Corporation during CCHW's McToxics Campaign and the Agency for Toxic Substance and Disease Registry of the EPA on its Superfund site research procedures. It responded to these collaborative overtures by referring them both instead to the diffuse array of grassroots groups around the country working on these issues. It withdrew from the EPA deliberations even though officials had held several initial meetings with representatives of over forty grassroots groups.

Community capacities for more deliberative and collaborative problem solving in toxics can now, however, be expected to increase under certain conditions:

• multi-issue community organizations continue to include toxics on their agendas, as they have begun to do (Cortes 1993)
• neighborhood associations with a formal role in city governance continue to expand, since these have proven to initiate local environmental policy more than other local citizen groups and government agencies (Berry, Portney, and Thomson 1993: 106), and do so in the context of broader issues of community development and quality of life
• local toxic groups continue to build relations of trust and good neighbor agreements with industry and govenment regulators as a result of their enhanced power to participate and to impose costs
• EPA continues to enhance its local capacity building approaches and facilitate multi-sided learning
• Congress revises Superfund in a way that not only give grants to states to decide how to prioritize remediation efforts, but makes these contingent on the establishment of citizen committees with broad representation and explicit environmental justice guidelines.

The most coherent and detailed proposal for a civic environmentalist reform of Superfund of which we are aware is that of John Hird in his recent book, Superfund: the Political Economy of Environmental Risk (1994: chapter 9). Environmentalists and grassroots organizations will view some aspects of this proposal as advantageous, and others as problematic. While it is very difficult to imagine the grassroots support for such a policy at the beginning of Superfund, given the clear lack of state and local capacities to make it serve community empowerment and racial justice, it is now possible to build on the subsequent learning to make such an approach reasonably workable.

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Index

A Introduction
B. Citizen Participation in Environmental Regulation: the First Decade

The Origins
Who Represents the Citizens?
Social Learning and Capacity Building: the Challenges

C. The Emergence of Civic Environmentalism

Alternative Dispute Resolution
Risk and Democracy
Estuaries and Ecosystems
Sustainable Development

Emergence of a Grassroots Anti-Toxics Movement
Community Relations in Superfund
NIMBY and Beyond: the Paradox and Promise of Democratic Participation
Community Empowerment and Public Policy for Democracy

E. References

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