the plan was irreversible, but
Lavigne felt differently. “I know
something can be done about
anything in this world,” she says.
She founded RISE St. James and
retired from her job as a special
education teacher when it be-
came clear that fighting Formosa
would be full-time work.
As RISE saw it, the plants’
noxious emissions would be un-
tenable. The complex would
discharge carcinogens like ben-
zene, formaldehyde, and ethylene
oxide into the air. In January
2020, Louisiana’s Department
of Environmental Quality ap-
proved permits that would allow
Formosa to release 800 tons of
pollutants annually, along with
13.6 million tons of greenhouse
gases. A month later, RISE joined
several groups in filing an appeal,
claiming the agency had under-
estimated the facility’s potential
output and that it would in fact
violate federal and state air qual-
ity standards. The groups cited
a 2019 ProPublica investigation
that suggested Formosa would
triple the level of carcinogens in
St. James. The report’s analysis
indicates that the zone around
the complex would have a greater
concentration of cancer-causingdeclining as a result.
are more likely to get cancer
Cancer Alley’s Black-dominant
areas than in its whiter ones. Pub-
lic records reveal that in 2014,
the parish council rezoned St.
James’ 4th and 5th Districts, both
majority Black, as “Residential/
Future- Industrial.” Many locals
say they were not informed of the
change, which eased passage for
companies like Formosa.
These potential health effects
spurred Lavigne to learn about
the threats of industrial pollution,
and she got involved with activ-
ists opposing the Bayou Bridge
Pipeline, which ends in St. James’
wetlands and is the last leg bring-
ing crude from the Dakota Access
Pipeline to Louisiana’s oil refiner-
ies. They lost that fight—it went
into operation in 2019—but she
found another cause.
In April 2018, Gov. John Bel
Edwards smiled behind a podium
as he announced that Formosa
had purchased 2,400 acres in
St. James to build a $9.4 billion
complex to make the precursor
chemicals for manufacturing
plastic, potentially creating more
than 1,200 permanent jobs and
8,000 temporary construction
gigs. Lavigne was shocked: The
site would be just two miles from
her property. Many assumed
63chemicals than 99.6 percent of indus-
trialized areas of the country.
State and local officials who back
the project cite employment in their
reasoning, but RISE members doubt
they’d see much of this benefit.
Moreover, some industry analysts
are skeptical the plants will prosper.
As renewable energy becomes more
affordable, oil and gas companies
face a global decline in extraction
profits, and they have increasingly
turned to plastic production over
the last decade. Those investments
are unlikely to pay off, contends Tom
Sanzillo, director of finance at the
Institute for Energy Economics and
Financial Analysis, a sustainability
think tank. At a virtual Energy Fi-
nance conference panel in July 2020,
Sanzillo explained that demand for
plastic has dropped thanks to over-
supply, improved recycling, and
economic downturn. “The industry
is in severe distress,” he said.
But RISE’s mission now extends
beyond environmental concerns.
In December 2019, a public records
request by the facility’s opponents
revealed that Formosa’s archaeol-
ogists had uncovered slave-burial
sites at the Buena Vista plantation.
Lavigne’s fight transformed into one
not just for the future of her home,
but also for her community’s past.