This concludes my consideration of two holes in the ground that illustrate environmental racism in Greensboro. Part 1 introduced the two sides of environmental racism and the case of Bingham Park, which sits atop a former landfill. Part 2 examines swimming pools and outlines some steps I want to take as a well-off white person committed to environmental justice.

The swimming pool

I wish that moving on to the topic of swimming pools meant that we could leave racism behind. Sadly, some of the ugliest episodes in the history of racism in the United States have occurred in and around swimming pools. White people have harassed, threatened, assaulted, and humiliated people of color trying to swim, calling on pool managers, elected officials, and the police to reinforce racial segregation even after it was no longer legal (New York Times). African Americans have fought for their right to access swimming pools and have recently become more prominent in competitive swimming. But they have a long history of exclusion to overcome.

In his book Contested Waters, Jeff Wiltse documents the racist history of swimming pools in our country. (For a quick introduction to the book check out this interview, this article, or the video on Wiltse’s webpage.) Wiltse writes that in the late 19th and early 20th centuries, Northern cities built swimming pools in immigrant and working-class-white neighborhoods but not in Black neighborhoods. At this time municipal swimming pools were racially integrated but gender segregated. This flipped in the 1920s and ‘30s. Wiltse argues that when women and men began swimming together, many whites viewed Black men as a threat to white women’s virtue and safety. In addition, they believed that African Americans were dirtier and more likely to carry diseases than whites. Swimming pools became racially segregated through both laws and legally sanctioned violence, and African Americans’ access to pools plummeted.

In the 1940s, ‘50s, and ‘60s, swimming pools became a focal point of the Civil Rights Movement and of continued racial violence. White people often drained or filled in pools rather than complying with integration orders. But they did not stop swimming. Rather, they fled to backyard pools and private swimming clubs. Between 1959 and 1962 the number of private swim clubs in the United States more than doubled, from 10,550 to 23,000. Swimming for recreation, fitness, and sport exploded in popularity among middle-class white people (USA Today).

The struggle over swimming pools has unnecessarily been a zero-sum game. During the early 20th century, municipal swimming pools were a high public priority. White flight ended this. The explosion of private swimming pools resulted in the withdrawal of funding and support for public pools. Wiltse notes that since the 1970s, the construction of new public pools has declined dramatically. Older pools are being closed and not replaced. This has left low-income people and, by extension, many people of color, without any place to swim. Wiltse points out that “relatively poor people, especially people living in large inner cities, have much less access to swimming pools than Americans have at any time during the last, say, hundred years” (NPR).

In The Sum of Us, Heather McGhee notes that when white people privatized swimming pools they “replaced the assets of a community with the privileges of a club.” As resources were diverted from public to private pools, “millions of white Americans who once swam in public for free began to pay rather than swim for free with Black people…. A once-public resource became a luxury amenity, and entire communities lost out on the benefits of public life and civic engagement once understood to be the key to making American democracy real.” (pp. 25, 28). This shift ended up hurting everyone (though affluent white people suffered the least). McGhee sees this move in other sectors of society as well: “We tend to drain the pool of public goods when the public becomes more diverse.” (AMA).

Given this history of unequal access to infrastructure, it is not surprising that today 64% of African American children have little or no swimming ability, compared to 40% of white children (USA Swimming). Black people drown at much higher rates that white people (CDC).

Greensboro illustrates this history. The city built a pool at a white high school (Grimsley) but not at the twin Black high school (Dudley) and temporarily sold a public pool (Lindley) to a private operator rather than comply with integration orders. Private pools were also battlegrounds; at least one was filled with cement when African Americans began moving into the neighborhood (News and Record). Today Greensboro has only two functional outdoor public pools, and both have limited shade and hours of operation. Meanwhile, private swim clubs in Greensboro have flourished. The Community Swim Association organizes summer swim meets between more than twenty private swim clubs. The team pictures on their website feature seas of white faces with few if any kids of color visible.

For years I swam on a masters (adult) swim team in Greensboro. We swam in the Grimsley and Lindley pools before they both closed due to maintenance issues, then in various school pools. After our kids were born, Kate (my wife) and I signed them up for swim lessons at the downtown Y, at a private gym, at Lindley, and at the Greensboro Aquatic Center (a large public swimming complex that focuses on competitive swimming and has entry fees that many low-income families cannot afford). We went swimming at Lindley during the summer and appreciated its affordability and racial diversity. When it closed (with no set date to reopen) we faced a problem many people in Greensboro face: a lack of swimming options.

Many families in our neighborhood belong to Friendly Swim and Tennis Club. The pool’s website proudly states that “Friendly opened in 1958, which, thanks to the dedicated management of members and staff, makes it the oldest private neighborhood pool in Greensboro.” I’m not sure that’s something to brag about. It’s like saying, “Friendly was the original refuge for white people who refused to swim with Black people.”

(Now if you’re a white person who belongs to Friendly pool or another private swim club, maybe you’re starting to feel a little bit defensive. Maybe you’re thinking: we’re not racist! Relax. My aim is not to criticize you or your club. I’m focusing on systemic racism here, not individual prejudice.)

For years Kate and I heard people rave about how great Friendly pool is. But we decided not to join, knowing something about the racist origins of private swimming pools. This felt like a small act of non-cooperation or refusal, and we talked to people about our position when they asked. But last year, I began contemplating the logic of our decision.

One reason not to join the pool was that we wanted to follow our values when investing our money. A family membership at Friendly costs $650 plus a one-time refundable $500 fee. That’s a sizable investment in private pools and, consequently, a divestment from public pools. We wanted our money to flow in the opposite direction, toward the public good.

Yet our boycott was essentially private, and as such it had little impact on the distribution or availability of swimming pools in Greensboro. When Lindley was open, we paid a few dollars each time we went swimming there, and perhaps we added to user headcount, which might influence government budget makers. But the truth is that our investment in Lindley was miniscule. Likewise, withholding our money from Friendly hardly hurt that pool.

I came to realize that for me, our boycott of Friendly was motivated less by an economic logic and more by my desire not to be tainted by racism. I wasn’t so different from those white people who thought they would be contaminated if they swam in the same pool as a Black person. I subconsciously believed that I would be morally contaminated if I swam in a pool built to avoid racial integration. My motivations were internal, and focusing on my own moral virtue was distracting me from engaging in more effective action to bring about systemic change, which is what I really wanted. My goals and tactics were misaligned.

It’s summertime again. Lindley remains closed. After much discussion, and with mixed feelings, Kate and I decided to join Friendly pool. Maybe we’re selling out. The first time I took the kids to the pool I felt disgusted with myself and with all the white people I saw enjoying themselves. (The patrons are about 98% white.) Since then, we’ve enjoyed the pool. I’m uneasy about how quickly it starts to seem normal. But feeling disgusted doesn’t make me a better person, and it certainly doesn’t help people in Greensboro who don’t have access to pools. Kate and I want to prioritize public engagement over private virtuousness.

White folks, it’s our turn

So what can well-to-do white people like me do to bring about a more just distribution of environmental hazards and goods? I’m not sure. Environmental racism is a systemic problem, and individuals have limited influence over systems. I don’t have all the answers, but I’m motivated to experiment with some strategies for advancing environmental justice in my city.

For starters, here are three responses I want to avoid:

1. Do nothing. This perpetuates the status quo, taking white privilege and Black and brown suffering for granted.
2. Try to do everything. This leads to white saviorism. Black and brown people don’t need me to swoop in and rescue them. And besides, I can’t do everything.
3. Pursue private virtuousness without taking public action. Avoiding racist institutions (private boycotts), refusing to enjoy the environmental benefits available to me (self-denial), or engaging in green consumerism (guilt-free shopping) might make me feel better about myself but do not change larger structures or systems. Similarly, feeling guilty doesn’t help anyone unless it motivates me to take action.

Here are six overlapping ideas I’m going to try, and I invite other affluent white people to try some of them too.

1. Educate myself and others. To become more proactive, I need to be more informed about existing environmental hazards in and around Greensboro and plans for the creation of new hazards and amenities. Local news outlets and environmental justice organizations are two good sources of information, and the North Carolina Department of Environmental Quality’s environmental justice site has a detailed community mapping system. I can also help to spread the word about environmental racism.
2. Organize my people. I can find partners within my neighborhood to join me in the other actions on this list. Kate has been doing this for years (she helps to convene a monthly meeting of white women in our neighborhood seeking to participate in racial justice work). Another group in our neighborhood, the Sunset Hills Environmental Affairs group has mostly worked within the neighborhood but could also bring neighbors together to promote environmental justice in the city. We also know members of Friendly pool who are interested in confronting the racist history of swimming pools in Greensboro. Lots can be done at the pool, including education, advocacy, and efforts to expand access.
3. Explore ways to redistribute wealth. I’d like to find ways to redistribute money from wealthy white neighborhoods to under resourced neighborhoods in the spirit of interdependence and repairing past and current injustice. Perhaps we could augment public funds with private funds to support hazard remediation or resource development in communities of color. I’m aware that philanthropy (like international development) has often reinforced rather than challenged white supremacy. Communities of color must have the ability to identify their own needs and to exercise their self-determination. Fortunately, there are plenty of resources out there related to anti-racist philanthropy and grassroots reparations, such as Coming to the Table’s guide and numerous articles in the Yes! magazine archive (search for “reparations” or “philanthropy”).
4. Support existing organizations. Statewide organizations such as the North Carolina Environmental Justice Network and the North Carolina Climate Justice Collective have information, expertise, strategies, and connections that I lack. More locally, I’m part of numerous organization that focus either on environmental protection or social justice. Within those organizations, I can continue to make a case for the connection between social and environmental problems and for the need to address environmental racism. I particularly want to support and follow organizations that represent communities of color in Greensboro (such as the Southeast Greensboro Coalition and Concerned Citizens of Northeast Greensboro).
5. Build bridges across divisions of race and class. Environmental racism depends upon racial and economic segregation. Organizing across lines of difference (such as the work Guilford for All is doing) helps to break down the structures that make environmental racism possible. Desegregation must also take place on a social and cultural level. Kate and I want to denormalize all-white spaces for our kids and give them lots of everyday experiences with racial diversity, including while swimming. “Violating apartheid in the United States” (as Philippe Bourgois puts it in In Search of Respect) is not easy; my goal is not to give up trying.
6. Advocate for policy change. To transform systems and structures, we need new public policies. We can pressure our elected officials (and candidates running for office) at the state and federal levels to promote climate and environmental justice. We have more influence over local politics. I recently answered the call from local organizations to speak in front of the school board, the city council, and the board of county commissioners (I asked the last two to oppose the construction of the SSEP pipeline in Guilford County, which would threaten environmental and climate justice). Speaking was surprisingly easy and empowering, and hearing others speak renewed my faith in American democracy. I want to continue speaking publicly. Policy initiatives I want to support include

• increasing funding for public environmental resources (such as swimming pools and parks), especially in underserved neighborhoods
• outlawing the production of toxic substances
• tightly regulating pollution and holding polluting industries responsible
• protecting and restoring environmental justice offices in state and federal governments
• mandating a just transition from fossil fuels to renewable energy

In writing this post I’m worried that I’m opening myself up to criticism: for not doing enough, for being naive or haughty. I worry about the mistakes I’ve already made and those I will make in the future. But I don’t want my fears, guilt, or uncertainty to stand in the way of action. And I hope that my story will encourage other people to take a few steps forward. If you’re a well-off white person, you too can experiment with ways to confront environmental racism. Let us no longer ignore or accept the unequal distribution of environmental hazards and goods where we live. Their distribution does not need to be a zero-sum game with winners and losers. Environmental justice is good for everyone, and it’s time for us to do our part.