On a rainy Saturday afternoon, about 20 former residents of Robertson gathered in the lower level of First Missionary Baptist Church of Robertson in Hazelwood, many carrying folders thick with documents.
Damp coats hung on a rack near the entrance. Fluorescent lights hummed softly overhead. At the tables, attendees compared notes, documents and worries accumulated over decades.
But the most important evidence in the room wasn’t paperwork.
It was Dorothy Butler.
Last month, Butler, 64, became one of the first known former Robertson residents to receive compensation through the Radiation Exposure Compensation Act, known as RECA — a federal program expanded to include certain St. Louis-area ZIP codes impacted by radioactive contamination.
“I’m the first to get mine,” Butler told the group. “It’s real.”
Butler declined to disclose her settlement amount, but RECA compensation for qualifying cancers often reaches tens of thousands of dollars, with some claimants receiving $50,000 or more depending on diagnosis and eligibility category.
For residents long skeptical that the federal government would actually pay claims tied to Cold War-era radiation exposure, Butler’s settlement offered something many said they had been waiting for:
Proof.
Questions rooted in doubt — and hope
Around Butler, attendees raised questions reflecting both urgency and anxiety.
“Do I need birth certificates for all my loved ones?”
“What happens if I mess up my three chances?”
Some leaned forward in their chairs. Others stood as they spoke, gripping envelopes and manila folders.
The gathering was one of a series of RECA assistance meetings organized by former state Sen. Maria Chappelle-Nadal, who has worked for years with advocates pushing for compensation and cleanup tied to radioactive waste dumped in North St. Louis County.
She said skepticism remains one of the largest barriers.
“People still ask if this is real money,” Chappelle-Nadal said. “They’ve lived with broken trust for decades.”
A program decades in the making
RECA was signed into law in 1990 to compensate individuals who developed certain cancers after radiation exposure from nuclear weapons testing and uranium industry work.
Despite St. Louis’ role in uranium processing during the Manhattan Project era, residents here were excluded until Congress expanded eligibility after years of lobbying by community advocates and political leaders including Sen. Josh Hawley and former U.S. Rep. Cori Bush.
Robertson — a historically Black community near sites later confirmed to contain radioactive waste — falls within one of the newly eligible areas.
Government records show millions of dollars approved for Missouri claimants. Yet early data indicated that fewer than 1% of eligible residents had applied, due largely to lack of awareness, distrust and the complexity of the claims process.
“The work is tedious”
Chappelle-Nadal described the RECA application as document-intensive and often overwhelming.
“It’s extremely difficult. The work is tedious,” she said. “You have to track down records from decades ago.”
That challenge was visible throughout the room.
Lynn Woolfolk, a former Robertson resident, moved from table to table, a thick, color-coded folder in hand, helping others organize birth certificates, death certificates and medical records.
Woolfolk recently filed claims connected to his deceased parents and said retrieving required documents cost him nearly $300.
“If you’re filing for someone who died 30 or 40 years ago, it can be a nightmare,” Woolfolk said.
He shook his head as he flipped through paperwork.
“They want proof, I understand that,” he said. “But some of those records don’t even exist anymore.”
Unable to locate everything, Woolfolk submitted a cover letter explaining the gaps.
A different experience
Butler said her application process was smoother.
“My brother got a lawyer, but I said, ‘I can do this myself,’” she said.
Seated calmly at one of the tables, Butler described assembling her documents.
Butler was diagnosed with bladder cancer last year and has undergone multiple surgeries. With her Robertson birth certificate and medical documentation readily available, she applied in September.
Weeks later, she received compensation.
“It wasn’t difficult at all,” Butler said. “You read it and fill out what pertains to you.”
Her settlement has quickly become a focal point in conversations among former residents.
For many, Butler’s experience challenges a deeply ingrained belief that compensation promises tied to radioactive exposure would never materialize.
Why skepticism persists
Advocates say that doubt is understandable.
Radioactive contamination in the St. Louis region traces back to the early U.S. nuclear weapons program. Following World War II, uranium processed in St. Louis was stored, transported and, in some cases, improperly disposed of near Coldwater Creek, the West Lake Landfill and other North County sites.
Federal investigations later confirmed that government agencies and contractors were aware of contamination risks but failed for decades to adequately contain or remediate the waste.
Last year, the U.S. Army Corps of Engineers committed an additional $40 million for cleanup efforts tied to radioactive contamination in the region.
“For many families, trust was broken long ago,” Chappelle-Nadal said.
Momentum building
Butler’s $25,000 payout is already influencing others.
Several attendees said they had delayed filing because they were unsure whether claims would be honored. Seeing someone they know receive compensation has shifted that calculation.
“It changes the conversation,” Chappelle-Nadal said. “People believe it when they see it.”
Deadline approaching
Residents who lived, worked or attended school for at least two years in eligible Missouri ZIP codes after Jan. 1, 1949, and later developed qualifying cancers have until Dec. 31, 2027, to file RECA claims.
Compensation may also be available to surviving spouses and certain family members.
Chappelle-Nadal urged residents not to let confusion or fear delay applications.
“This is money people are entitled to,” she said.
Butler offered a more personal appeal.
“I know people are doubtful,” she said. “But it’s paying off.”
Sylvester Brown Jr. is the Deaconess Foundation Community Advocacy Fellow.