Unifi survived competition from China by helping fashion brands meet sustainability goals. But not everyone agrees that its polyester made from recycled plastic bottles should be produced in the US.
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A visit to one of Unifi’s last remaining US polyester plants, in Yadkinville, North Carolina, can make you feel like an optimist.
After driving through a sweet little neighborhood of small homes, you crest the hill and see the Unifi facility on your right: giant silver-gray buildings perched on a tidy, gently rolling lawn that looks like an advertisement for organic milk. A small solar farm sits off to the side, and 18-wheelers branded in grass-green and sky-blue livery pull in and out of the property, dropping off clean PET plastic flake and picking up shipments of polyester fiber.
This is the flagship factory where one of the world’s most popular so-called sustainable fibers is manufactured: polyester made from
recycled plastic bottles. In the last 18 years,
more than 42 billion bottles have flowed globally through the owned and partner facilities of Unifi and been turned into a branded polyester fabric Unifi calls
Repreve.
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Repreve’s promise to brands and shoppers is that turning bottles into fiber
reduces greenhouse gas emissions by up to 60 percent when compared to virgin polyester fiber, and water consumption by up to two-thirds. Unifi and its brand partners (like the ones I saw in the showroom, and more) also claim to keep old water bottles from going to landfills, incinerators, or the ocean.
It’s because of this promise that this Unifi factory survived the Great Offshoring of textile manufacturing, and the onslaught of cheap Chinese polyester.
Not everyone agrees recycled polyester is part of a better future. Nike is one of Unifi’s biggest customers
and has bragged that the sportswear brand alone diverts more than one billion plastic bottles a year from landfills and waterways. In May of 2023, a Missouri consumer
filed a greenwashing lawsuit against Nike, alleging in part that the recycled polyester in Nike’s shoes and shirts isn’t actually sustainable. The lawsuit was dismissed, along with a
similar complaint against H&M, but it expressed a bubbling resentment against corporations that use recycled polyester to green up their image without addressing the many other forms of environmental and human damage of plastic fashion.
Bottle-to-polyester recycling, once thought to be a key tool in combating our global plastic pollution problem, has been under fire for a few years. “We’ve been led to believe that recycled and sustainable are synonymous, when they are anything but,” Maxine Bédat, executive director of the New Standard Institute, a nonprofit pushing for a sustainable fashion industry,
told The Guardian in 2021. (When I asked her if she stands by that statement today, she said yes.)
I’m here in Yadkinville because I wanted to see this operation for myself and decide: Is recycled polyester actually sustainable? Or, as many now claim, is it greenwashing, a get-out-of-jail-free card for brands who want to look like they’re saving the planet while going on with their toxic, fossil-fueled business as usual?
Over the past two years, that question has morphed into an even more fraught one: Does this factory provide the kind of good, safe factory jobs that Americans say they yearn for, and that Trump’s proposed tariffs purport to bring back to our shores?
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When Coca-Cola first introduced its PET plastic bottle in 1978, Unifi’s founder Allen Mebane worried the beverage industry would take up all the supply of PET resin. Instead, 20 years later, the opposite has happened, with polyester plants buying up the supply of used water bottles. Forty to 60 truckloads of plastic waste get dropped off at Unifi’s bottle processing plant per week, bought from material recovery facilities as far away as Michigan and Maine.
In 2023, the CBC
did a high-profile investigative piece into fashion’s greenwashing, and focused most of its critique on recycled polyester. “If you're using plastic bottles, you're actually taking bottles out of a potentially closed-loop recycling system, and then giving them a one-way ticket to a landfill disposal,” George Harding-Rolls, a sustainable fashion advocate, told the CBC.
But most bottles aren’t being recycled anyway. The collection rates for PET plastic started rising around the time Unifi debuted Repreve, hitting 30 percent in 2012 and
hovering around there for a decade. Meanwhile, demand for recycled PET from both the fashion and packaged food industry, who have both committed to sourcing recycled material, has soared. It’s
expected to outpace supply by 2030.
“You know who's complaining about it? The bottle companies,” Ingle says. “Because they believe the textile industry is taking their bottles.”
“Is that true?” I ask.
“Well, yeah,” he laughs. “The market for recycled bottles is very transparent. The price of recycled bottles changes twice or sometimes three times a week. So if you want to buy a bottle and turn that bottle back into a bottle, have at it. Nobody is stopping the bottle industry from doing that.”
Well, there is one thing. Unifi’s willingness to pay more for old bottles, because it’s turning them into a premium product that brands and consumers will pay more for, may be driving the market rate of old water bottles up. But nobody wants to pay more for a soda in a bottle made with recycled plastic.
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North Carolina made it illegal to throw out plastic water bottles in 2009, but
despite pleas to supply local industry with material so it can create jobs,
a 2021 report put the state’s PET recycling rate at a measly 8 percent. Ingle thinks if North Carolina passed a bottle bill that levied a 5- or 10-cent deposit on each bottle, Unifi could get everything it needs from within its borders. “Unifi is involved at the state level in various efforts to increase the recycling rates of PET post-consumer bottles,” he later wrote by email.
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