The Toxic Soil of Philly's Gentrifying River Wards
The lead plants are long gone from Philadelphia's now-trendy "river wards." But the area's development boom is reviving their toxic legacy: Lead that has sat dormant for decades is being disturbed and raised up as dust that is poisoning children. And the city seems incapable, or unwilling, to do anything about it, according to an extensive investigation by the Inquirer and the Daily News.
The newspapers tested exposed soil in 114 locations — parks, playgrounds, backyards. Nearly three out of four had hazardous levels of lead contamination. Even tiny amounts can permanently lower a child's IQ. The article reports:
In addition, reporters discovered high levels of lead dust on rowhouse stoops and sidewalks near construction sites. In tests taken from a popular neighborhood playground — both before and after digging began at a vacant lot across the street — a once-safe play area was shown to contain lead dust.
Developers are not required to test soil for lead as a routine precaution before disturbing land. Further, no single governmental agency is responsible for making certain a yard's soil is safe.
The article captures the anxiety of parents whose children have dangerous levels of lead because of the air they breathe and the ground they play on. Surprisingly, it does not address the threat to adults – especially the construction workers who endure the greatest exposure.
Its three reporters – Wendy Ruderman, Barbara Laker, and Dylan Purcell – vividly describe the time when Philadelphia was known as the “World’s Workshop,” churned out everything from toys to textiles. At one point it has more lead smelters (36) than any other city in the country, many clustered along the Delaware river, smack dab in a densely populated city. A longtime resident, 68-year-old Gregory Antczak, recalls:
As a boy, he had to take part in routine family evacuations. “A siren would go off inside the factory. It was like an air-raid siren, shrill and high,” he said. The sound signaled a fire, chemical spill, or some other peril.
His dad would utter the same four words: “Get in the car.”
Antczak and his older brother would hop into the family’s two-tone 1950 Ford — white roof, salmon-colored body — as black smoke and a noxious smell filled the air. His dad drove eight miles north to the house of Antczak’s aunt.
“It was the same thing all the time,” Antczak said. “We get there, the coffeepot would go on the stove, the cake would come out of the refrigerator, and then we’d wait it out.”
