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Asbestos, a highly carcinogenic material left behind by a Davidson manufacturing plant in the late 1960s, is believed to be responsible for health issues impacting the Black community situated nearby.

This is the final installment in a three-part environmental justice series made possible by a National Association of Black Journalists Black Press Grant supported by the Chan Zuckerberg Initiative.

The white single-story brick complex at 301 Davidson St. is one of the last original and best-preserved buildings in downtown Davidson.

The Linden Cotton Mill occupied the building for nearly 40 years starting in 1890. The Carolina Asbestos Company took over the site in the 1930s and manufactured asbestos fabric, tiles and shingles until it closed in the late 1960s.

Dubbed “Asbestos Hill” and “Mystery Hill,” the 25-foot-high mound of hazardous material that remained was left uncovered for decades. In 1984, state authorities ordered developer Robert Kenyon to install an engineered soil cap and monitor it closely. For the next 30 years, the site was largely forgotten. That changed in 2016 when a groundhog dug into the mound and released the tiny fibers into the air. Later that year, a flood further breached the cover and spread asbestos fibers into the nearby street, sparking concern about the safety of people who live or work nearby.

Breathing asbestos fibers has been associated with a variety of lung and respiratory diseases, including asbestosis, also known as diffuse pulmonary fibrosis, and mesothelioma, a rare and very aggressive form of lung cancer.

The government and the asbestos industry have been widely criticized for not informing the public of dangers of asbestos exposure. Court documents from the 1970s proved that asbestos industry officials knew of the dangers as early as the 1930s but concealed the information.

The Environmental Protection Agency finally banned most uses in 1989 and the chemical is no longer used in construction. But the material was ubiquitous from the early 1900s to the 1970s, used in everything from concrete to building insulation and lawn furniture. The microscopic fibers are still present in older buildings and can be disturbed during demolition, construction, home maintenance, repair, remodeling and yard work.

Asbestos was everywhere
Davidson residents Marvin Brandon, Garfield Carr and Ruby Houston have been friends for more than 50 years. Like the majority of the town’s Black residents who grew up and went to school here, their lives have all been touched by the old asbestos mill.

Houston’s parents bought a house on the backside of the factory in 1955. She remembers kids playing in the creek of milky white water created by runoff from the factory. Brandon recalls his father putting tiles in his truck or the trunk of his car and using them in the family driveway. He and his friends would sling them around for sport. Inside the factory, dust was so thick workers could barely see 6 feet in front of them. The tiny white fibers routinely drifted outside and covered the surrounding area like snow.

“We weren’t educated on the dangers of asbestos,” Carr said. “I don't know if anybody even thought about it at the time.”

In retrospect, they realize the health dangers were all around.

Both Brandon and Carr have lost family members to illnesses they believe were connected to the facility. Brandon’s father was 64 years old when he died of lung cancer in 1984.

“My dad worked at that asbestos plant for a long time, I think until it closed,” Brandon said. “He actually worked in the yarn part of the plant, so he was getting all the fibers. He would use a mask and everything like that. His death certificate said asbestos.”

Carr’s father and grandfather worked in the mill, and both died of cancer. While asbestos was not listed as the official cause of death, Carr believes it definitely played a part.

Cleaning up the mess
After Asbestos Hill was disturbed in 2016, several state agencies got involved in the remediation process. The EPA also conducted a six-month, $3 million search for asbestos in 93 properties, including the house in which Brandon grew up.

“It was just filled with asbestos,” he says.

So were 32 others. The agency removed approximately 6,204 tons of asbestos-contaminated materials. However, many properties were never tested, and officials said the asbestos was probably deeper in the soil or under houses or foundations. The North Carolina Superfund Section chief said it wouldn’t be possible to remove all the material without destroying every home in the area.

The asbestos cleanups sparked interest from developers who viewed the central location as prime for development. When the state Department of Environmental Quality held a public information session about plans for a multi-story, mixed-use redevelopment, neighbors expressed fears that disturbing the asbestos during construction would put them at greater risk of exposure and related health issues.

The state designated the building as a Brownfield site, defined as a property of which the expansion, redevelopment, or reuse of which may be complicated by the presence or potential presence of a hazardous substance, pollutant, or contaminant. The building was zoned ‘Village Commercial’ and banned for residential use, schools, childcare or adult care centers.

Some developers were scared off by the cost associated with cleanup, but the state reached an agreement with Charlotte real estate developer Lat Purser & Associates to foot the bill and repurpose the site as a multimillion-dollar retail and entertainment space with a brewery, restaurants and shops. The developer estimated the remediation would cost several million dollars and the project could take several years to complete. That worries Houston.

“Five or six children live directly beside that asbestos mill,” Houston said. “They’re always skating and riding their bicycles. My biggest concern is that if new development comes, there will be digging and dust and if there’s not a permanent cap, we’ve got a problem.”

Asbestos watch site
In January 2020, state officials held a meeting at the Ada Jenkins Center to address concerns. The surrounding area was officially labeled an “asbestos watch” site, a designation that concerned and angered residents. How long had the state known about dangers posed to the Black community? For decades, they complained but felt their concerns were ignored and/or dismissed by state and local leaders.

“As long as you don’t dig on your property, you’re fine,” a state official told the attendees, which wasn’t very reassuring. Many residents worry redevelopment will speed gentrification that is already pricing many out of the homes in historically Black neighborhoods.

“There's really nothing available for the children or grandchildren as far as housing is concerned,” Carr said. “There is nothing affordable here. A lot of people are moving to these neighboring counties like Rowan because Davidson is just too expensive.”

Recent Davidson College graduate Maurice Norman calls the planned redevelopment unfortunate and sees it as a less obvious form of environmental racism where Black people are being displaced and put at risk because of environmental factors they can’t control.

“There is no affordable housing in the area for people in my generation,” he said. “I think if it's torn down and rebuilt to cater to the same upper class, white population here, this could have real negative effects on the community.”

Carr also doubts the development will be beneficial for the town’s rapidly shrinking Black population and doesn’t completely trust the project will be done safely.

“Somebody wants to put a brewery there. I would drink not one drop of beer that was produced in that facility,” he said.

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