A Life Engulfed by Pesticides

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Barry Estabrook


Leaning on her cane, Linda Lee matter-of-factly listed her medical conditions: diabetes, lupus, high blood pressure, emphysema, and arthritis. She had her hip replaced and her gall bladder removed. Her kidneys failed, so she had a transplant. She also had two corneal implants. Asked what caused her woes, the 57-year-old resident of Apopka, Florida, doesn't hesitate: for nearly a decade as a farm laborer on the shores of Lake Apopka in the 1970s and 1980s, she was routinely exposed to agricultural chemicals.

Sadly, Lee is in no way unusual among the roughly 2,500 African Americans, Haitians, and Mexicans with whom she toiled. In a survey of workers conducted in 2006—eight years after the Apopka farms were closed—the Farmworker Association of Florida found that 92 percent of respondents had been exposed to pesticides through a combination of aerial spraying, wind drift, touching plants still wet with pesticides, or inhaling pesticides. They reported arthritis, throat problems, diabetes, persistent coughing, recurring rashes, miscarriages, birth defects, and childhood developmental difficulties—all conditions that research studies have linked to chemicals applied in the area.

"Plenty of my old friends and neighbors got what I got, and a lot of them got stuff I don't want to get," Lee told me last week when I joined a group of students from the women's studies department at the University of Central Florida. With Lee as one of their guides, they were touring the Lake Apopka area for a firsthand look at one of the country's most extreme examples of what happens when agribusiness shows utter disregard for the environment and for the welfare of workers.

Located 15 miles northwest of Orlando, almost in the shadow of Disney's Magic Kingdom, Lake Apopka has had many claims to fame. About 10 miles in diameter, it is the state's fourth largest lake. For a time in the first half of the 20th Century, it was nationally famous for its trophy largemouth bass, and 21 lodges sprang up on its shores to cater to anglers from around the world. But by the 1980s, Apopka had earned yet another distinction: it was the Sunshine State's most polluted large lake. The fabled bass were extinct.

Blame for the declining water quality was not hard to assign. In 1941, as part of the wartime effort to produce more fruits and vegetables, 19,000 acres of swamp on the lake's north shore were drained to make way for "muck farms" in the rich soil. During the growing season, farmers pumped water in and out of the lake depending on irrigation requirements and rainfall amounts. In the off-season, they allowed the lake to flood the fields to replenish the soil and prevent wind erosion and weed growth. With each cycle, the water not only picked up chemical fertilizers, but DDT, toxaphene, endrin, aldrin, dieldrin—a veritable witch's brew of endocrine-disrupting organochlorine pesticides. The water turned pea-green. The only surviving fish were tough, trashy, minnow-like gizzard shad.

By 1996, the situation had become so dire that the Florida government bought out the landowners and closed down the farms. The 14 landowners were paid $103 million for property and equipment. (In one of the sweetest deals, a farm sold the government a vegetable cooler for $1.4 million and then turned around and bought it back at auction for $35,000.) The 2,500 workers, who often had families that lived with them on the land, got nothing other than orders to clear out.

Presented by

Barry Estabrook is a former contributing editor at Gourmet magazine. He is the author of the recently released Tomatoland, a book about industrial tomato agriculture. He blogs at politicsoftheplate.com. More

Barry Estabrook was formerly a contributing editor at Gourmet magazine. Stints working on a dairy farm and commercial fishing boat as a young man convinced him that writing about how food was produced was a lot easier than actually producing it. He is the author of the recently released Tomatoland, a book about industrial tomato agriculture. He lives on a 30-acre tract in Vermont, where he gardens and tends a dozen laying hens, and his work also appears at politicsoftheplate.com.

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