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The Labyrinthine Rules That Created a Housing Crisis

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Monday, September 2, 2024

This article has been adapted from the introduction of On the Housing Crisis: Land, Development, Democracy. Consider how a home is built in America. Long before the foundation is poured, the first step is to check the rule books. For the uninitiated, the laws that govern the land appear hopelessly technical and boring, prescribing dozens upon dozens of requirements for what can be built and where. Zoning ordinances and other land-use regulations or zoning ordinances reach far beyond the surface-level goal of preserving health and safety. Instead, they reveal a legal regime stealthily enforcing an archaic set of aesthetic and moral preferences. Preferences that flourished out of a desire to separate Americans by race have evolved into a labyrinthine, exclusionary, and localized system that is at the core of the housing crisis—and very few people know about it.In America, we’ve delegated the power over how our land is used to the local level, and seeded the process with various veto points. We’ve done this under the misguided assumption that decentralization will make the process more democratic. In reality, this system has resulted in stasis and sclerosis, empowering small numbers of unrepresentative people and organizations to determine what our towns and cities look like and preventing our democratically elected representatives from planning for the future.[From the July/August 2023 issue: Colorado’s ingenious idea for solving the housing crisis]Say you own a single-family home. You and your partner bought it during the pandemic purchasing frenzy, and now you find yourself blessed with a child. You decide that you’d love to have your father move in with you to help with child care when you return to work. Although you love your dad, making sure he has his own living space is probably best for everyone involved.So you decide to build a little backyard cottage, sometimes called a “granny flat,” a “mother-in-law suite,” or, more formally, an “accessory dwelling unit.” But then you discover that your property is not zoned for a secondary home, no matter how small. You’re annoyed—It’s not like I’m trying to build an apartment building, and this is my land right? You go to city hall and ask the planner to help you fill out an application for a variance. You’re pretty handy, so you’ve worked out the specifications for the home you’re building (again, on your property) and you submit your application to the city.Next you attend a city-council meeting, where you’re No. 3 on the agenda. You wait your turn for hours, thinking, Who could possibly have time for this? while listening to people who claim to be your neighbors—you don’t recognize them—complain about bike lanes. Finally, you’re up, and you get a question about parking availability. You tell the council that your father is going to share your car, and that you already have a two-car driveway and a garage. You’re then peppered with questions about whether the structure will cast shadows on your neighbors’ property, whether you intend to rent out the unit someday, whether you’ve looked into potential environmental damage to your lawn, whether you promise to respect the historic integrity of the neighborhood. Someone makes a comment about “out-of-towners” with their big money coming and driving up the prices. But then the meeting is over, and you hope that’s the last of it.It isn’t. In the following months, you’re asked to make a bunch of changes to your plan and resubmit it. Unfortunately, someone on your block has made it his business to draw out this process as long as possible. He is frustrated by all the new homes going up as the suburb grows. Apparently he thinks they’re ugly. You end up negotiating directly with him and realize that, if you reconfigured the cottage and got all the legal approvals necessary to satisfy his concerns, you’d have to shell out an extra $20,000 that you don’t have. Often, you consider giving up.But let’s say the local authorities get around to granting permission. That’s not necessarily the end of the road. A determined opponent could sue, claiming that your little cottage will degrade the environment or that you ignored some minor permitting technicality, or he could fight to get your neighborhood added to a historic registry, and on and on. Proving that you’ve actually harmed the environment or degraded the neighborhood character is secondary; the claim alone is enough to keep your plans—and your life—in limbo.Not every story about housing development is quite this miserable, but many are. The most unlikely part of this saga is that our protagonist even tries to get an exception from the existing, restrictive rules. Most people wouldn’t bother with a variance; they would just give up. Developers don’t like to bother with variances, either; they want to avoid the serpentine process our unlucky hero found herself trapped in.[Jerusalem Demsas: Meet the latest housing-crisis scapegoat]For our fictional new parent, the costs are weighty: A grandfather is deprived of the chance to live with his family, a grandchild is deprived of that relationship, two parents are forced to shell out thousands of dollars for day care, and the people who wanted to buy the grandfather’s home now have to look elsewhere. The knock-on effects are endless. The parents will have less money to save for their child’s future, and they will drive up the demand—and thus prices—for day-care services; they may even have to subsidize the grandfather’s elder care. These individual setbacks can seem minor, but multiplied across tens of thousands of communities, they add up to a national tragedy.The American population is growing, and aging, and in many cases looking for smaller houses. But the types of homes Americans need simply don’t exist. All across the country, local governments ban smaller houses (have you tried looking for a starter home recently?), apartment buildings, and even duplexes—the sorts of places a grandparent, or a young person, or a working family might want to live. The shortage has been estimated at 4 million homes, and that scarcity is fueling our affordability crisis. In the end, whatever does get built reflects the cost of delays, the cost of complying with expensive requirements, the priced-in threat of lawsuits, and, most important, scarcity.Americans are aware by now that the housing affordability crisis is acute, but many don’t understand what’s causing it. All too often, explanations center on identifying a villain: greedy developers, or private-equity companies, or racist neighbors, or gentrifiers, or corrupt politicians. These stories are not always false, nor are these villains imaginary, but they don’t speak to root causes.I’ve told these stories myself, often identifying NIMBYs as the villains. This term, an acronym for “not in my backyard,” is used to refer specifically to those who support something in the abstract but oppose it in their neighborhood. But NIMBY has experienced the sort of definitional inflation that happens to all successful epithets and now refers to anyone who opposes development for the wrong reasons.An intense focus on the moral failings of various people and organizations can be a distraction. Exposing terrible landlords is important, but perhaps even more important is addressing why they have so much power. Pointing out that a billionaire is trying to thwart the construction of townhouses in his affluent neighborhood is useful, but even more useful is understanding why he might succeed.I believe that opposing housing, renewable-energy development, or even bike lanes for bad reasons is wrong (and my disdain for people who do so is evident in many of these articles). But NIMBYs are a sideshow. A democracy will always have people with different values. The problem is that the game is rigged in their favor. NIMBYs haven’t won because they’ve made better arguments or because they’ve mobilized a mass democratic coalition—I would very much doubt that even 10 percent of Americans have ever seriously engaged in the politics of local development. NIMBYs win because land politics is insulated from democratic accountability. As a result, widespread dissatisfaction with the housing crisis struggles to translate into meaningful change.[Jerusalem Demsas: Housing breaks people’s brains]When democracies fail to translate voter desires into reality, we should try to identify what’s causing the disconnect. In this case, the trouble is that our collective frustration about our economic outcomes is directed at elected officials who have little or nothing to do with how our land is used. We should change that.The politics of land should play out in the domain of democratic participation instead of leaving it to the zoning boards, historic-preservation committees, and courtrooms. Instead of relying on discretionary processes subject to review by countless actors, governmental bodies, and laws, states should strip away veto points and unnecessary local interference.In general, debates about how our land is used should happen where more people are paying attention: at the state level, where governors, watchdog institutions, and the press are able to weigh in and create the conditions for the exercise of public reason. Not at the hyperlocal level, where nobody’s watching and nobody’s accountable.Right now we have theoretical democracy: democracy by and for those with the lawyers, time, access, and incentive to engage in the thorny politics of land. But despite the pretty name of “participatory democracy,” it is anything but. “Democracy is the exercise of public reason,” the political philosopher John Rawls wrote. Relatedly, the economist and philosopher Amartya Sen argued that “democracy has to be judged not just by the institutions that formally exist but by the extent to which different voices from diverse sections of the people can actually be heard.”All 340 million of us could, I suppose, become obsessed with land-use regulations and show up at dozens of meetings a year to make our voices heard. We could worm our way into sparsely attended communities and spend hours going back and forth with the unrepresentative actors who have the time, the money, and a curious combination of personality traits, and who have already hijacked this process. But we won’t. And a true democracy does not simply offer the theoretical possibility of involvement in decision making: It offers institutions that can hear us where we are. The rules that govern land are the foundation of our lives. Americans should take a closer look into how they are determined.This article has been adapted from the introduction of On the Housing Crisis: Land, Development, Democracy.

The rules that govern land are the foundation of our lives.

Jerusalem Demsas On the Housing Crisis
This article has been adapted from the introduction of On the Housing Crisis: Land, Development, Democracy.

Consider how a home is built in America. Long before the foundation is poured, the first step is to check the rule books. For the uninitiated, the laws that govern the land appear hopelessly technical and boring, prescribing dozens upon dozens of requirements for what can be built and where. Zoning ordinances and other land-use regulations or zoning ordinances reach far beyond the surface-level goal of preserving health and safety. Instead, they reveal a legal regime stealthily enforcing an archaic set of aesthetic and moral preferences. Preferences that flourished out of a desire to separate Americans by race have evolved into a labyrinthine, exclusionary, and localized system that is at the core of the housing crisis—and very few people know about it.

In America, we’ve delegated the power over how our land is used to the local level, and seeded the process with various veto points. We’ve done this under the misguided assumption that decentralization will make the process more democratic. In reality, this system has resulted in stasis and sclerosis, empowering small numbers of unrepresentative people and organizations to determine what our towns and cities look like and preventing our democratically elected representatives from planning for the future.

[From the July/August 2023 issue: Colorado’s ingenious idea for solving the housing crisis]

Say you own a single-family home. You and your partner bought it during the pandemic purchasing frenzy, and now you find yourself blessed with a child. You decide that you’d love to have your father move in with you to help with child care when you return to work. Although you love your dad, making sure he has his own living space is probably best for everyone involved.

So you decide to build a little backyard cottage, sometimes called a “granny flat,” a “mother-in-law suite,” or, more formally, an “accessory dwelling unit.” But then you discover that your property is not zoned for a secondary home, no matter how small. You’re annoyed—It’s not like I’m trying to build an apartment building, and this is my land right? You go to city hall and ask the planner to help you fill out an application for a variance. You’re pretty handy, so you’ve worked out the specifications for the home you’re building (again, on your property) and you submit your application to the city.

Next you attend a city-council meeting, where you’re No. 3 on the agenda. You wait your turn for hours, thinking, Who could possibly have time for this? while listening to people who claim to be your neighbors—you don’t recognize them—complain about bike lanes. Finally, you’re up, and you get a question about parking availability. You tell the council that your father is going to share your car, and that you already have a two-car driveway and a garage. You’re then peppered with questions about whether the structure will cast shadows on your neighbors’ property, whether you intend to rent out the unit someday, whether you’ve looked into potential environmental damage to your lawn, whether you promise to respect the historic integrity of the neighborhood. Someone makes a comment about “out-of-towners” with their big money coming and driving up the prices. But then the meeting is over, and you hope that’s the last of it.

It isn’t. In the following months, you’re asked to make a bunch of changes to your plan and resubmit it. Unfortunately, someone on your block has made it his business to draw out this process as long as possible. He is frustrated by all the new homes going up as the suburb grows. Apparently he thinks they’re ugly. You end up negotiating directly with him and realize that, if you reconfigured the cottage and got all the legal approvals necessary to satisfy his concerns, you’d have to shell out an extra $20,000 that you don’t have. Often, you consider giving up.

But let’s say the local authorities get around to granting permission. That’s not necessarily the end of the road. A determined opponent could sue, claiming that your little cottage will degrade the environment or that you ignored some minor permitting technicality, or he could fight to get your neighborhood added to a historic registry, and on and on. Proving that you’ve actually harmed the environment or degraded the neighborhood character is secondary; the claim alone is enough to keep your plans—and your life—in limbo.

Not every story about housing development is quite this miserable, but many are. The most unlikely part of this saga is that our protagonist even tries to get an exception from the existing, restrictive rules. Most people wouldn’t bother with a variance; they would just give up. Developers don’t like to bother with variances, either; they want to avoid the serpentine process our unlucky hero found herself trapped in.

[Jerusalem Demsas: Meet the latest housing-crisis scapegoat]

For our fictional new parent, the costs are weighty: A grandfather is deprived of the chance to live with his family, a grandchild is deprived of that relationship, two parents are forced to shell out thousands of dollars for day care, and the people who wanted to buy the grandfather’s home now have to look elsewhere. The knock-on effects are endless. The parents will have less money to save for their child’s future, and they will drive up the demand—and thus prices—for day-care services; they may even have to subsidize the grandfather’s elder care. These individual setbacks can seem minor, but multiplied across tens of thousands of communities, they add up to a national tragedy.

The American population is growing, and aging, and in many cases looking for smaller houses. But the types of homes Americans need simply don’t exist. All across the country, local governments ban smaller houses (have you tried looking for a starter home recently?), apartment buildings, and even duplexes—the sorts of places a grandparent, or a young person, or a working family might want to live. The shortage has been estimated at 4 million homes, and that scarcity is fueling our affordability crisis. In the end, whatever does get built reflects the cost of delays, the cost of complying with expensive requirements, the priced-in threat of lawsuits, and, most important, scarcity.

Americans are aware by now that the housing affordability crisis is acute, but many don’t understand what’s causing it. All too often, explanations center on identifying a villain: greedy developers, or private-equity companies, or racist neighbors, or gentrifiers, or corrupt politicians. These stories are not always false, nor are these villains imaginary, but they don’t speak to root causes.

I’ve told these stories myself, often identifying NIMBYs as the villains. This term, an acronym for “not in my backyard,” is used to refer specifically to those who support something in the abstract but oppose it in their neighborhood. But NIMBY has experienced the sort of definitional inflation that happens to all successful epithets and now refers to anyone who opposes development for the wrong reasons.

An intense focus on the moral failings of various people and organizations can be a distraction. Exposing terrible landlords is important, but perhaps even more important is addressing why they have so much power. Pointing out that a billionaire is trying to thwart the construction of townhouses in his affluent neighborhood is useful, but even more useful is understanding why he might succeed.

I believe that opposing housing, renewable-energy development, or even bike lanes for bad reasons is wrong (and my disdain for people who do so is evident in many of these articles). But NIMBYs are a sideshow. A democracy will always have people with different values. The problem is that the game is rigged in their favor. NIMBYs haven’t won because they’ve made better arguments or because they’ve mobilized a mass democratic coalition—I would very much doubt that even 10 percent of Americans have ever seriously engaged in the politics of local development. NIMBYs win because land politics is insulated from democratic accountability. As a result, widespread dissatisfaction with the housing crisis struggles to translate into meaningful change.

[Jerusalem Demsas: Housing breaks people’s brains]

When democracies fail to translate voter desires into reality, we should try to identify what’s causing the disconnect. In this case, the trouble is that our collective frustration about our economic outcomes is directed at elected officials who have little or nothing to do with how our land is used. We should change that.

The politics of land should play out in the domain of democratic participation instead of leaving it to the zoning boards, historic-preservation committees, and courtrooms. Instead of relying on discretionary processes subject to review by countless actors, governmental bodies, and laws, states should strip away veto points and unnecessary local interference.

In general, debates about how our land is used should happen where more people are paying attention: at the state level, where governors, watchdog institutions, and the press are able to weigh in and create the conditions for the exercise of public reason. Not at the hyperlocal level, where nobody’s watching and nobody’s accountable.

Right now we have theoretical democracy: democracy by and for those with the lawyers, time, access, and incentive to engage in the thorny politics of land. But despite the pretty name of “participatory democracy,” it is anything but. “Democracy is the exercise of public reason,” the political philosopher John Rawls wrote. Relatedly, the economist and philosopher Amartya Sen argued that “democracy has to be judged not just by the institutions that formally exist but by the extent to which different voices from diverse sections of the people can actually be heard.”

All 340 million of us could, I suppose, become obsessed with land-use regulations and show up at dozens of meetings a year to make our voices heard. We could worm our way into sparsely attended communities and spend hours going back and forth with the unrepresentative actors who have the time, the money, and a curious combination of personality traits, and who have already hijacked this process. But we won’t. And a true democracy does not simply offer the theoretical possibility of involvement in decision making: It offers institutions that can hear us where we are. The rules that govern land are the foundation of our lives. Americans should take a closer look into how they are determined.


This article has been adapted from the introduction of On the Housing Crisis: Land, Development, Democracy.

Read the full story here.
Photos courtesy of

Why won’t PJM let batteries and clean power bolster a stressed-out grid?

PJM, the largest electric grid operator in the U.S., has a major problem — old, dirty power plants are closing down faster than new clean energy resources can replace them. This mounting grid crisis is already driving up electricity costs for the 65 million people living in PJM’s territory, which stretches from the…

PJM, the largest electric grid operator in the U.S., has a major problem — old, dirty power plants are closing down faster than new clean energy resources can replace them. This mounting grid crisis is already driving up electricity costs for the 65 million people living in PJM’s territory, which stretches from the mid-Atlantic coast to the Great Lakes. By the end of the decade, the situation could become so dire that it threatens the reliability of PJM’s grid. The blame falls in large part on PJM’s worst-in-the-nation grid-interconnection backlog. New energy projects looking to come online in its region face yearslong wait times before they’re even considered. To make matters worse, energy companies and climate advocates say PJM is dragging its feet on one straightforward way to work around this logjam. Existing wind and solar farms and fossil-fired power plants often have more grid capacity than they actually need during many hours of the day or seasons of the year. Developers could add batteries or other new energy capacity next to these power plants and make use of that surplus grid space. It wouldn’t eliminate the trouble altogether, but it would make a serious dent, clean energy developers say. Federal regulators have repeatedly directed grid operators to allow power plant owners to pursue such additions under what’s called ​“surplus interconnection service” (SIS) rules. But PJM has made it next to impossible for power suppliers to do so, even as most other U.S. grid operators have abided. Critics say PJM’s refusal to follow suit is particularly frustrating: By barring this faster approach, PJM is making its bad grid situation worse. That’s why those critics are asking for federal intervention. This summer, clean energy industry groups and environmental advocates asked the Federal Energy Regulatory Commission to deny the interconnection reform plan submitted by PJM, which was required by last year’s FERC Order 2023. Among their objections to PJM’s plan is its refusal to change the rules it now uses to deny these fast-track additions. In July, renewable energy and battery developer EDP Renewables (EDPR) filed a complaint with FERC asking it to overturn PJM’s denial of its plan to add solar to a wind farm in Indiana. It’s just one of the failed surplus interconnection proposals the developer has brought to the grid operator. Trade groups Advanced Energy United, the American Clean Power Association, and the Solar Energy Industries Association; the environmental group Sierra Club; and fellow clean energy developers Invenergy Solar Development North America and EDF Renewables added their support to EDRP’s complaint. “We go to PJM and say, ​‘Look at this amazing deal. We already have the capacity. Our transmission system is underutilized during the periods we need it. Let’s connect this,’” David Mindham, EDPR’s director of regulatory and market affairs, said during a September webinar. ​“And they say no.” Getting more round-the-clock use out of the grid Mindham’s comments came during a presentation of a report from Gabel Associates, commissioned by the American Council on Renewable Energy (ACORE) and other clean energy industry groups, detailing the potential for using this technique to help PJM meet its growing shortage of electricity generation. The focus of the presentation was on surplus interconnection service, the technical term for what is a fairly simple concept: Let energy projects use the grid interconnection capacity they already possess to its fullest potential. Many energy projects don’t use their maximum capacity all 8,760 hours of the year. So-called ​“peaker” plants — fossil-gas-fired power plants that are turned on only during times of high electricity demand — may run just 250 to 1,500 hours per year, for example. And wind and solar farms generate their full capacity only when the wind is blowing or the sun is shining. That leaves plenty of hours when these projects aren’t using their maximum allowed grid capacity — their ​“interconnection service,” in FERC parlance. Surplus interconnection service can fill in those gaps. Mike Borgatti, Gabel Associates’ senior vice president of wholesale power and markets services and co-author of the report, offered the example of a 100-megawatt solar farm that could add batteries to store power during the day and send to the grid after the sun goes down. “At the end of the day, you would end up with 100 megawatts of energy that could be supplied by any combination of solar and storage,” he said. ​“It could be 100 percent storage at some points in time; it could be 100 percent solar at others. It could be, say, 50 megawatts of solar and 50 megawatts of storage. As long as whatever combination of outputs never exceeds 100 megawatts, we’re good to go.” FERC made clear in 2018’s Order 845 and in last year’s Order 2023 that grid operators must enable surplus interconnection service, Borgatti added. And PJM needs to ​“accelerate new entry from high-capacity-value resources, and we need to do it very quickly.” PJM has about 180 gigawatts of total generation capacity. Of that, 43 to 58 gigawatts are expected to shut down by 2030, according to a March report from its independent market monitor. Meanwhile, electricity demand is forecast to rise at a rapid rate, with an estimated 40 gigawatts of new load expected by 2030. Despite these pressures, new power plant construction has stalled. About 160 gigawatts’ worth of projects that are trying to connect to the grid — almost all of them wind, solar, or batteries — are stuck in the interconnection queue. Borgatti estimated that without changes, only about 6.3 gigawatts of ​“stuff we need” can be built by 2030. That’s not enough to make up for PJM’s growing electricity demand and shrinking power plant fleet. The upshot, he said, is that PJM faces an impending ​“resource adequacy shortfall” — a gap between forecasted energy supply and peak demand — of nearly 4 gigawatts by 2029, he said. The underlying barrier is that PJM hasn’t expanded its transmission grid quickly enough to accommodate more energy resources, Borgatti said. That’s a problem bedeviling grid operators across the country, and one FERC has ordered them to solve. But building new transmission lines still takes years to up to a decade. In the face of this grid-capacity challenge, SIS projects are a neat workaround, Borgatti said. Because they make use of previously approved grid capacity, they can undergo an expedited study process that circumvents the standard interconnection queue. That accelerated timeline takes only 270 days, meaning that these projects could go from proposal to construction ​“within less than a year, theoretically.” What’s more, batteries added to solar and wind farms can store power when the grid doesn’t need it and discharge it when it’s in short supply — something that’s already happening regularly in California and Texas. Batteries can also help meet fast-rising demand from corporate energy buyers like data center developers for clean energy that matches up with their power usage on an hour-by-hour basis, EDPR’s Mindham said.

Exxon Mobil says advanced recycling is the answer to plastic waste. But is it really?

Exxon Mobil has touted 'advanced recycling' as a groundbreaking technology that will turn the tide in our plastic crisis. California says it's a lie.

When California Atty. Gen. Rob Bonta filed suit against Exxon Mobil and accused the oil giant of misleading the public about the effectiveness of plastic recycling, many of the allegations surrounded the company’s marketing of a process called “advanced recycling.”In recent years — as longstanding efforts to recycle plastics have faltered — Exxon Mobil has touted advanced recycling as a groundbreaking technology that will turn the tide on the plastic crisis. Company officials and petrochemical trade organizations have used the phrase in radio spots, TV interviews and a variety of marketing material online. In a 2021 blog post, Exxon Mobil president of product solutions Karen McKee painted a particularly promising picture. “Imagine your discarded yogurt containers being transformed into medical equipment for your next doctor’s appointment, and then into the dashboard of your next fuel-efficient car.”But despite its seemingly eco-friendly name, the attorney general’s lawsuit denounced advanced recycling as a “public relations stunt” that largely involves superheating plastics to convert them into fuel. At Exxon Mobil’s only “advanced recycling” facility in Baytown, Texas, only 8% of plastic is remade into new material, while the remaining 92% is processed into fuel that is later burned. Bonta’s lawsuit seeks a court order to prohibit the company from describing the practice as “advanced recycling,” arguing the vast majority of plastic is destroyed. Many environmental advocates and policy experts lauded the legal action as a major step toward ending greenwashing by Exxon Mobil — the world’s largest producer of single-use plastic polymer.“There’s nothing ‘advanced’ about it,” said Jane Williams, executive director of California Communities Against Toxics. “It’s a deception. It’s been a deception for half a century. If they were going to be able to recycle plastic polymer back into virgin resin, they would have done it already. But they are using the same technology we’ve had since the Industrial Revolution. It’s a coke oven, a blast furnace.”As more research has emerged on the limitations of plastics recycling, the revelations have shaken the public’s confidence about what to put in their blue, curbside recycling bins. “The public perception of what’s recyclable with respect to plastic doesn’t match reality,” said Daniel Coffee, a UCLA researcher who studied plastic waste in Los Angeles County. “Recycling, for so long, was thought of as this perfectly crafted solution to single-use plastics. And the clearest answer as to why, is that the public was told so. They were told so, in large part, by an industry-backed misinformation campaign.”Advanced recycling, which is also called chemical recycling, is an umbrella term that typically involves heating or dissolving plastic waste to create fuel, chemicals and waxes — a fraction of which can be used to remake plastic. The most common techniques yield only 1% to 14% of the plastic waste, according to a 2023 study by the National Renewable Energy Laboratory. Exxon Mobil has largely used reclaimed plastic for fuel production while ramping up its virgin plastic production, according to Bonta.“You’re essentially drawing oil up, turning it into plastic, and then having to burn more oil to turn that plastic back into oil, which you then burn,” Coffee said.Bonta alleges Exxon Mobil has had a patent for this technology since 1978, and the company is falsely rebranding it as “new” and “advanced.” The practice was tested in the 1990s, but did not continue beyond the trial phase. It recently reemerged after the company learned that the term “advanced recycling” resonated with members of the public at a time of increasing concern over increasing amounts of plastic waste. In December 2022, it announced the start of an advanced recycling program. In a 2023 interview with a Houston television station, an Exxon Mobil representative touted the Baytown facility.“When [customers] buy a plastic product off the shelf, they want to know that it’s sustainable,” the Exxon Mobil employee said. “This is a huge game change for the industry — but I would say society in general.”In response to Bonta’s lawsuit, Exxon Mobil said its Baytown facility has processed 60 million pounds of plastic into “usable raw materials” that otherwise would go to landfills. Experts say that figure pales in comparison with the company’s 31.9 billion-pound annual production capacity.Nationwide, the Baytown plant is one of about five facilities that break plastics down by exposing them to high heat, according to the Last Beach Cleanup, a nonprofit working on plastic pollution. California has adopted some of the nation’s most strict laws to reduce single-use plastics. Perhaps the most consequential, SB 54, requires the state to sell 25% less single-use plastic packaging and foodware. It also prohibits waste incineration and similar practices from being counted as recycling. Because most plastics cannot be recycled, state officials have struggled to figure out how to dispose of this material. California had previously exported much of its plastic waste to China. But China has banned the import of most foreign plastics, nearly eliminating the market for used plastic.In 2021, about 5.4 million tons of plastic waste was taken to California landfills, according to the latest state disposal data. That same year, more than 625,000 tons of trash was sent to so-called “transformation” facilities, where waste is incinerated, or burned in the absence of oxygen (a process called pyrolysis). California does not track data on how much of this incinerated waste was plastic, according to CalRecycle, the state agency that oversees waste management. The state also doesn’t keep detailed information on how much plastic waste is exported to other states and how they process it.“California’s vision for a waste-free future is focused on reducing waste, reuse, and intentionally designing products that flow back into the system for efficient collection and remanufacturing into new products,” said Maria West, a spokesperson for CalRecycle.If the state is earnest in its pledge to eliminate waste, environmental advocates say the state needs to phase out single-use plastics.“You can’t do anything with plastic but landfill it or burn it,” said Williams. “You can try to repurpose it, but you’ll never compete with virgin stock. And even then, you have to shred it, make it into pellets and feed it into a blast furnace. How is that good for the climate? How is that better than coal?” Newsletter Toward a more sustainable California Get Boiling Point, our newsletter exploring climate change, energy and the environment, and become part of the conversation — and the solution. You may occasionally receive promotional content from the Los Angeles Times.

Some in this California beach town insist the Tijuana River is poisoning them. Officials disagree

The Tijuana River has been polluted for decades, but in recent years, south San Diego residents say the smell — and their respiratory illnesses — has gotten worse.

IMPERIAL BEACH, Calif. —  The Tijuana River should not be flowing this time of year. But throughout the dry season, it has — delivering millions of gallons a day of an unnatural mix of water, neon green sewage and industrial waste from Tijuana through the city of Imperial Beach to the Pacific Ocean. This 4.4-square-mile beach town of 27,000 largely working-class and Latino residents, sitting just south of San Diego, is appealingly affordable. But it also bears the brunt of Tijuana’s population boom.Its beaches just reopened last weekend, after having been closed for more than 1,000 days because of ocean bacteria levels that are a hundred times higher than safe amounts. The stench of rotting eggs after dark is overwhelming for south San Diego residents, keeping some awake all night. A family with a small child sits on the sand next to the Imperial Beach Pier. In the distance a yellow sign warns beachgoers to stay out of the water. (Jireh Deng / Los Angeles Times) Pollution in the river has been an entrenched environmental crisis for decades, with all sides pointing fingers at one another. Residents blame politicians for failing to find a solution. Local politicians blame Congress for not funding improvements in the South Bay International Wastewater Treatment Plant, which processes raw sewage from Tijuana. The federal government blames Mexico for lax sewage regulations. The International Boundary and Water Commission says it’s not its job to collect the wastewater from unknown sources that flows into the Tijuana River. Complicating matters further: Researchers and county officials are sharply split on whether the stench is simply a nuisance or a danger to public health. Some help is on the way, potentially. Mexico’s new wastewater treatment plant is set to open this month, and there are plans to double the capacity of the South Bay International Wastewater Treatment Plant, although that project will take five years. Ángel Granados points at the pollution in the Tijuana River under Hollister Street. (Jireh Deng / Los Angeles Times) Meanwhile, residents and the mayor of Imperial Beach say they are plagued with unexplained and more acute illnesses. A persistent cough that wouldn’t disappear. Wheezing in the chest. Migraines and headaches. Stuffy sinuses with an acidic burn in the eyes. Nausea. Diarrhea. And they worry about worse effects on their children. Jeffrey Jackson, who’s lived along the ocean in Imperial Beach for 25 years, said the air “is getting me sick ... it’s stuff in my lungs.” He’s had to clear his lungs in the middle of the night constantly, and his daughter caught pneumonia twice this summer. “I have toilet paper underneath my pillow so I can spit.”Drs. Matt and Kimberly Dickson knew something was awry as well. As residents of Imperial Beach, they were used to treating surfers at the South Bay Urgent Care Center sickened by E. coli and other bacteria after defying beach advisories to stay out of the water. But after Hurricane Hillary and the atmospheric rivers of February, they noticed more patients arriving at their doors with similar symptoms — diarrhea, viral infections, vomiting, stomachaches — who hadn’t touched the contaminated water. Ramon Chairez crouches above a pipe channeling fluids from the Tijuana River, which should be dry during this time of year. (Jireh Deng / Los Angeles Times) The Dicksons tried to raise alarms to San Diego County’s public health officials, but ultimately the county decided there was no direct correlation between the flood of sewage that poured into the river and the ailments that residents developed.Frustrated, the Dicksons contend that the public health response has been slow because people are just becoming violently ill, not dying. “I feel like the patients down here are being treated like the canary in the coal mine,” Matt Dickson said. County health officials didn’t respond to a request for comment about health concerns in the Tijuana River Valley. Kimberly Prather, the director of the Center for Aerosol Impacts on Chemistry of the Environment at UCSD’s Scripps Institution of Geography, was not so quick to dismiss the doctors’ concerns. Her previous research had shown that bacterial microbes could become airborne pathogens in sea spray. Now she wanted to prove that the polluted water was also polluting the air. David Jarma, a field researcher from the University of Texas at Austin, takes dust samples from a patio in Imperial Beach. (Jireh Deng / Los Angeles Times) In August, Prather joined forces with other researchers, including San Diego State University’s Paula Granados, an expert in cross-border pollution, to perform one of the largest studies ever jointly conducted on the Tijuana River Valley. The researchers started pulling samples from the air, river mouth, groundwater, soil and even the green beans grown in a local community garden to check for pollutants after they found concerning levels of hydrogen sulfide — upward of 30 parts per million — and hydrogen cyanide near the Tijuana River. (The Occupational Safety and Health Administration limits exposure for industrial workers to 20 parts per million.)But the San Diego County Air Pollution Control District conducted its own studies, which found less pollution — 0 to 16 parts per million of hydrogen sulfide in Imperial Beach, along with safe levels of hydrogen cyanide. Supervisor Nora Vargas’ office said in an email that “there is no imminent threat to public health from hydrogen cyanide and hydrogen sulfide.” Nevertheless, her office also passed out 400 free air purifiers to community members in the South Bay to help alleviate the smell.The EPA, the California Department of Public Health and Gov. Gavin Newsom’s office have all said that the hydrogen sulfide is a nuisance but doesn’t pose any immediate risk for residents. “It’s not a situation where you’re accumulating a bunch of the toxin into your body and it’s causing damages to your organs,” said Dr. Cyrus Rangan, a medical toxicologist with the California Department of Public Health, though he did concede that even temporary symptoms over long periods of time could degrade a resident’s quality of life. “These problems generally are not permanent problems. They can become persistent problems if you continue to experience the odors.” Eric Biggs walks his horse on Saturn Boulevard where it passes over the Tijuana River, a spot frequently traversed by local residents. “Look, take a deep breath” is written in chalk on the asphalt, with an arrow pointing to the riverbed. (Jireh Deng / Los Angeles Times) Prather argued that county and state officials fail to understand the severity of the situation, saying, “Just based on gases alone, this is a toxic pit.”Her research still needs to be peer reviewed, but Prather said she’s confident her work is on the verge of finding proof that bacteria in the water are becoming aerosolized and making people sick. The results should also confirm a direct correlation between the increase in sewage flow in the Tijuana River and higher rates of airborne hydrogen sulfide and health complaints, she said. There have been very few studies on the long-term effects of hydrogen sulfide exposure in human populations because testing on people would be unethical. Rangan said that there aren’t data yet on whether pathogens in the Tijuana River can be aerosolized and affect residents but that the state health department is working with doctors from the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention to do more research. Imperial Beach Mayor Paloma Aguirre wears a mask while standing on Hollister Street, where the sewage underneath the bridge has turned the water black. Aguirre went to the emergency room fearing she was having a heart attack and was told she had lung inflammation. (Jireh Deng / Los Angeles Times) Meanwhile, the Dicksons have been joined by other doctors who are concerned as well. Prather’s work has identified a hot spot around Saturn Boulevard where more than half a dozen schools are located in a 1.5-mile radius around the river. San Diego Pediatricians for Clean Air has called on public officials to take precautionary measures to protect children, who breathe more rapidly, have a larger lung-to-body-mass ratio and would be more vulnerable to hydrogen sulfide poisoning. Hydrogen sulfide exposure has neurological effects as well, including memory loss, fatigue and loss of balance. More than half a dozen schools are within 1.5 miles of a hotspot for noxious odors emanating from the Tijuana River. (Courtesy of Kimberly Prather) Perla Rosales, an Imperial Beach resident who works as an executive assistant for California Quality Drywall Services, has two children, 11 and 4 years old, in the South Bay Union School District. Her younger child, Azariel, has been suffering from a persistent cough at school. “The school called me to ask if he had asthma because he was coughing a lot,” Rosales said. During last week’s heat wave, SBUSD informed parents that all outdoor activities were canceled, physical education classes and recess were moved indoors, and air scrubbers were on all day. “[His] teacher told me she had a lot of students sick in the last weeks,” she added. Rosales lived in Tijuana three years ago with her family but had never smelled the river like this before. Knowing that her son has been exposed to hydrogen sulfide has her worried about his cough “because he usually is a healthy boy.”Over the years, residents have seen the ecosystem change into an unrecognizable landscape — once clear ponds stocked with fish are now gray cesspools filled with white foam that is visible even in Google’s satellite images. Surfers have seen dead birds and occasionally dead dolphins washed ashore. Residents still fish every day off the Imperial Beach pier for food, unaware that heavy metals have been found in the ocean. A satellite image from Google shows white foam next to Saturn Boulevard where it passes over the Tijuana River. (Google) Marvel Harrison, who sits on Imperial Beach’s Tijuana River Pollution Task Force, lives on the beach next to the Imperial Beach Pier with her husband. She has become the reluctant lead plaintiff of a new class-action lawsuit against Veolia Water North America, the private company running the South Bay International Wastewater Treatment Plant. Filed on Jan. 6, the lawsuit claims that Veolia’s failure to address pollution at the beach depreciated the value of residents’ properties and prevented them from enjoying the ocean. The suit seeks $300 million in damages, but Harrison said the goal is to bring attention to the environmental crisis, not to collect a huge check. (Jireh Deng / Los Angeles Times) Harrison — who saved up enough money with her husband, a former pediatrician, to build a $3-million home — understands she’s part of a wealthy minority in her town. “The people of privilege are the ones that are using their voice in a respectful way to give voice to people who haven’t had it,” the 67-year-old former counseling psychologist said. “It’s not like anybody can just get up and move to a different part of town or buy a house or buy themselves an AC unit,” Imperial Beach Mayor Paloma Aguirre said. “These are working families. There’s many of them, paycheck to paycheck, so that’s why we need help.”In 2021, thousands of Los Angeles County residents living near the Dominguez Channel received vouchers to relocate after a warehouse fire caused a hydrogen sulfide stink. Assemblymember David Alvarez (D-San Diego) is one of the local representatives who’s written to Newsom twice, asking for a state of emergency. He believe it could help with short-term solutions, like temporarily relocating his constituents.“You never recover if this happens every single day,” Alvarez said of the smell that he said has become progressively worse since his time as a San Diego City Council member. But he said the federal government has its role to play as well in cleaning up the riverbed. “This is going to require a tremendous amount of remediation, and something like a Superfund [site designation], I believe, is appropriate.” Paula Granados tests the groundwater at Gabriel Uribe’s property, where Uribe’s dogs have been throwing up and his horses have been losing weight. (Jireh Deng / Los Angeles Times) Sen. Alex Padilla (D-Calif.) and Reps. Juan Vargas (D-San Diego) and Scott Peters (D-San Diego) just announced a renewed effort to pass the Border Water Quality Restoration and Protection Act, which Vargas and the late Sen. Dianne Feinstein also introduced in the last two Congresses. As for the state agencies that continue to say the air is safe for residents to breathe, the Dicksons encourage public officials to stay overnight and experience what the people in Imperial Beach experience.“It’s not just a nuisance smell. It’s not just an odor. Your eyes burn, hurts to breathe, you get a sore throat. You’re vomiting,” Kimberly Dickson said. “If [Newsom] were to come down here and spend one night at the home of one of our residents that lived by the river that’s exposed to hydrogen sulfide for 24 hours, he probably would declare a state of emergency.”

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