Petro and the Past

The fabric of life in the South has been colored by race from the outset. The long chains of slavery, particularly in Louisiana, Alabama and Mississippi, still linger in the destitution and poverty of many of those whose ancestors had been enslaved there.

The economy of the antebellum South was dependent on slave labor. Following the Civil War and emancipation, many former slaves continued to live on or near the plantations where they’d been enslaved. In Louisiana, along the Mississippi River, many of the old plantations that remain intact were the scenes of unspeakable acts of violence and terror.

Plantations stretched up and down River Road, the winding artery that snakes alongside the Mississippi River between New Orleans and Baton Rouge. When slaves were freed, many who’d lived in the River Road plantations took up in houses nearby. Many of these houses were passed down through generations of black families. Many of the descendants of former slaves continue to live in the area.

A refinery seen through a car window in Baton Rouge, La. The petrochemical companies “try to make us feel like we’re in the wrong.”

As big industry expanded in the region, it did so along the river on land that had been owned by slavers and planters, where there was access to the waterway and rails. While the corporations bought up some of the old plantation land, it proved much more difficult to purchase land passed down by the descendants of slaves, local historians say. Because of Louisiana’s Napoleonic Codes, property could only legally be sold with proper proof of ownership. That means the big industrial facilities were unable to get their hands on many of the properties along the lane. To this day, many small black communities that have been around since Reconstruction remain, clustered around the facilities that have expanded or popped up over the last several decades.

“That’s how you see the fence line communities now,” Subra said. “They didn’t move them away, they just developed right next to them.”

Many of the companies have since bought out many former residents, paying to relocate them across town or across the street, razing homes to create what look like buffer zones between the facilities and the communities. Subra and other activists have worked as brokers between the companies and the nearby communities, helping residents work through the process of requesting buyouts.

“The issue becomes, my grandmother and my mother lived in the house and now me and my brother live in the house. But the facilities buy them out and they have to split up the profit with all the relatives,” Subra said. “In the end they don’t get enough money to buy a new house. So they’re stuck.”

“[These families] were there and these Goliaths moved in and the Davids have suffered. The disenfranchised, which we try to empower, don’t have access or a sense of empowerment.”

The petrochemical companies and the black communities, including the physical land these communities have occupied for generations, have become so enmeshed that a number of refinery grounds include old black cemeteries and other hallowed ground.

Buried deep in the belly of the Marathon Petroleum Company in Garysville is Bishop cemetery, a patch of crumbling headstones and green grass surrounded by barbed wire and machinery. The cemetery holds the remains of former slaves and their descendants from the San Francisco Plantation nearby.

The crypts and tombs, the peace of the dead, offer stark relief to the twisting metal pipes and smokestacks that hover not far above.

Marathon spokeswoman Sid Barth said families that can prove they’re descendants of the plantation can still be buried in the cemetery. The refinery maintains the grounds and has a special procedure for visits and funerals, though they haven’t conducted many in recent years.

A secretary at Hobbs Funeral home, one of the oldest black funeral homes in St. James Parish, where the cemetery and refinery are located, said they haven’t buried anyone in Bishop for a few years. But families still make the annual pilgrimage to the site on All Saints Day, when mourners deliver flowers and bouquets to the graves of their ancestors.

“It’s something to see. If you’re born and raised out here like I am, some things just don’t cross your mind, you’ve seen it all your life,” said the secretary, who noted that her great-grandmother and other relatives are buried there. She said she appreciates that Marathon has left the cemetery largely undisturbed. And that for the most part they’ve been good stewards of the land. Her only gripe would be the refineries’ continued expansion into nearby land.