- Photo by Alex Boerner
- Young hogs are gathered in pens at Butler Farms in Lillington.
Editor's note: This is the first of a three-part investigation into North Carolina's hog-farming industry. This story will examine claims by lower-income African-American residents of eastern North Carolina that neighboring hog farms have polluted their properties and efforts by lawmakers to shield pork producers from litigation. The second story will look at the environmental impacts hog farming has had over the last two decades, particularly on waterways such as the Neuse River. The final piece will discuss ways to make the hog industry more sustainable, both for the environment and the state's rural population, and the political and financial reasons those steps have not been taken.
PART ONE: THE STENCH
I. "Nobody Else Will Ever Live on This Land"
Rene Miller pokes a lavender-frocked leg out of her front door and grimaces. It's a bright April afternoon, and the sixty-six-year-old Miller, with a stoic expression and a dark crop of curls, braces herself for the walk ahead.
Her destination isn't far away—just a half-mile down a narrow country road, flanked by sprawling green meadows, modest homes,and agricultural operations—but the journey takes a toll. Because as she ambles down the two-lane street, stepping over pebbles and sprouts of grass, the stench takes hold—an odor so noxious that it makes your eyes burn and your nose run. Miller likens it to "death" or "decomposition," to being surrounded by spoiled meat.
As bad as it is today, she says, it's nothing compared to the way it is on a muggy afternoon in August, when the stink hovering in the stagnant, humid air can nearly "knock you off your feet."
Still, Miller makes this trip often, to honor her family and pay her respects. She points ahead to her family cemetery, which sits just off Veachs Mill Road in Warsaw, an hour's drive east from Raleigh. It's a stone's throw from her one-story, white-walled house, part of a tract of land her great-grandmother inherited as part of a post-slavery land grant. When she gets to the cemetery, she stops in front of her nephew's grave, recalling his life and his death to cancer. Purple and yellow wildflowers nip at its edges; nearby, a Steelers flag rustles in the wind.
- Photo by Alex Boerner
- Rene Miller's family cemetery in Warsaw
"How long have we lived here? Always," she says, gazing at her grandmother's headstone. "And we always will. Nobody else will ever live on this land."
The odor isn't just her problem. It's ubiquitous across parts of eastern North Carolina. It's the smell of hog country, of millions of pigs and even more tons of their feces. For years, their waste and its stink have been the subject of litigation, investigations, legislation, and regulation. A growing body of research has documented the industry's health and environmental risks. The issue has been well examined in the media, too. The New York Times and The Washington Post covered it. So have Dateline and 60 Minutes. The News & Observer earned a Pulitzer Prize for reporting on it in 1995.
Nonetheless, the stench—and its consequences, both for the lower-income, largely African-American neighbors of the hog farms and the state's environment—lingers. The obvious question—why?—has been at the heart of a months-long INDY investigation that has led reporters to raucous legislative hearings, a tiny airplane, and stories about death threats shared over a glass of sweet tea. This series will explore what the newspaper has learned—and what can be done to solve North Carolina's pervasive hog-waste problem.