Naming Shame, Reclaiming Justice: A Reflection on Environmental Racism in Hartford
As a co-instructor for a community-based research project at Trinity College and CT State Community College Capital’s Liberal Arts Action Lab, I had the opportunity to work alongside students, community partners, and co-instructors—including Sarah McCoy from the Center for Leadership and Justice (CLJ) and Professor Abigail Fisher Williamson—to explore the long shadow that Hartford’s waste management policies have cast on its South End neighborhoods. Together, we asked how residents have been impacted by decades of environmental racism—and how they might reclaim power in shaping what justice looks like now that the city’s incinerator has finally shut down.
As we listened to residents’ stories, I found myself reflecting not only on the injustices facing Hartford, but also on the quieter, more personal ways that systems of neglect leave their mark—on homes, on health, and on the stories we carry.
Since the 1980s, the Materials Innovation and Recycling Authority (MIRA) incinerator, located in Hartford’s South End, processed waste from 72 of Connecticut’s 169 towns. While this facility served much of the state, its negative impacts—air and water pollution, respiratory health problems, and environmental degradation—were concentrated in Hartford’s predominantly Black and Latine neighborhoods.
These communities already face some of the highest environmental burdens in the nation, ranked in the 99th percentile by the CDC’s Environmental Justice Index, due to factors like hazardous sites, air and water pollution, the built environment, and highway infrastructure. When the MIRA plant shut down in 2022, the State of Connecticut acknowledged the need for environmental remediation. Approximately $60 million remains in the MIRA remediation fund, presenting a critical opportunity for Hartford residents to shape how those funds are used.
It was within this pivotal moment that our team sought to ask a deeper question: how can justice be defined and pursued by those most impacted? Our project, in collaboration with CLJ and the Stowe Center for Literary Activism, aimed to elevate community voices in this process. We employed Participatory Action Research (PAR) methods—specifically, oral history interviews and a PhotoVoice project with 12 local residents. These approaches were chosen not just as data collection tools, but as frameworks for equity and co-creation, ensuring that those most affected by environmental injustice were treated as co-researchers, not subjects.
One PhotoVoice session stands out vividly in my memory. As the conversation unfolded and a sense of connection began to grow among participants, Tatiana Hilario shared a powerful realization:
“All this garbage does something to your self-esteem as well, because I live there, this is my house. This is something I should be proud of. But now, I have this shame attached to it… That’s nothing like I ever wanted to feel. And honestly, I feel like it just clicked right now because I am thinking about it, what is this? What is that feeling? It’s shame!”
Their words were a revelation—not just for her, but for me. In that moment, her reflection reached deep into my own past. I was brought back to my childhood and teenage years, growing up in a home that was falling apart—its windows rotting, its structure fragile, constantly reminding us of what we could not afford to fix. I remember the unease I felt whenever someone came over, the quiet worry about what they might think. At the time, I didn’t have the language for it, but maybe that feeling was shame, too—not because we lacked love or dignity, but because poverty often forces people to live in conditions that society treats as lesser, and then blames them for it.
Still, my family gave everything they had. With a limited income, they prioritized what mattered most—our education, our future—even if it meant the house went without repairs. That choice, that sacrifice, was full of dignity. But it also revealed how hard it is to maintain even the basics when the system is not built to support you. I carried a quiet hope that one day I could build a life where the windows were whole, the home was peaceful, and where I could breathe easier—not just physically, but emotionally. That’s why her words resonated so deeply: because what we were discussing wasn’t just about trash or infrastructure, but about what it feels like to grow up surrounded by visible signs of neglect, and yet still want more—not just for yourself, but for your community.
This reflection was echoed throughout our findings. Residents described not only the physical consequences of the incinerator—worsening asthma, polluted air—but also the emotional and psychological burden of systemic neglect. A recurring theme in our research was the intersecting nature of injustice. Trash management didn’t exist in isolation; it intertwined with the condition of bus stops, the availability of public transportation, and the broader built environment. These indicators of neglect were tied to historic policy decisions—redlining, underinvestment in Black and Brown neighborhoods, and the construction of highways that tore through once-thriving communities.
This work, part of a larger Mellon Foundation initiative on environmental justice, underscores how the legacy of the past is very much alive today. The inequalities people experience are not accidental; they are rooted in generations of policy choices that prioritized convenience and wealth for some over health and dignity for others.
I am especially grateful for the opportunity to work alongside my co-instructors, Sarah McCoy from the Center for Leadership and Justice and Abigail Fisher Williamson from Trinity College, whose expertise, dedication, and care shaped every part of this project. I also want to thank the incredible students on our team, whose curiosity, insight, and commitment made this work both meaningful and impactful. Through this experience, we learned so much from one another—not only about environmental justice, but also about collaboration, patience, adaptability, and the power of shared learning. It was a true team effort, grounded in trust, care, and the belief that community-engaged research can be both rigorous and transformative.
Being part of this project reminded me how deeply personal environmental justice is—not only a matter of policy, but also of memory, identity, and emotion. Yet, achieving justice requires more than reflection alone. It demands multiple, interconnected approaches: grassroots organizing that empowers communities; robust data that reveals systemic patterns; legal frameworks that enforce rights; and historical accountability that addresses past harms.
