“No no no no,” I whispered to myself as I sat on the edge of my bed, looking at my phone. It was the 2024 Election results. I stared at the map mostly covered in red. I focused on the line showing who got what electoral votes, with Donald Trump easily crossing it with 277 out of the required 270.
Once we got the kids off to school, my husband put his head down on his hands and started crying. I walked over, put my arms around him, and wept too.
All day, I felt empty and raw. A sense of despair buried itself into me and wouldn’t let go. All of the exhaustion from election stress and all of the other shit going on in my life overwhelmed me. A fog settled over my mind.
This was my thought pattern – variations on a theme: “We did everything we could, but it wasn’t enough. I did everything I could, but it wasn’t enough. So what’s the point? Why bother? Why did I spend all of that time phone banking and having people hang up on me? Writing postcards? Why the hell bother with climate action now anyway? What difference does it make when he’s back in office and wants to destroy it all anyway? What the hell is all of my life’s work for anyway?!”
Shivering with my feet hurting, my mouth nevertheless formed a wide smile as I watched the screen. My own hands grasping the sleeves of my coat, I watched Barack Obama hold his hand up as part of his swearing-in as the President of the United States of America. I blinked away tears against the cold wind, knowing that my own work had helped bring our country to this point. I had knocked on doors, talked to potential voters, and built relationships with other volunteers. After witnessing Bush’s legacy through my college years, I had fully bought into Hope and Change. As a new federal employee, I was proud that I helped choose my next boss and the leader of our government. Standing in the dead January grass on the National Mall at the Presidential inauguration – yet still too far away to see what was going on – was the proudest I ever felt as an American.
A little less than eight years later, I sat on my bed weeping. I had gone to bed before the election results had come in, frustrated but still hoping against hope. Upon waking, I learned that Donald Trump had been elected president. I feared for my job, my friends in less privileged positions, and my children’s futures. My younger son was only six months old at the time. I wrote a letter to my children apologizing for our generation failing to stop it and promising them to fight as hard as I could for better things. And I did. But it constantly felt like a failing fight, two steps backward for every half-step forward. It was exhausting and unsustainable.
The map on the wall at the Museum of Natural HIstory seemed small, dull even, compared to the wealth of excitement around it – dinosaur bones, wall-sized video displays, models of giant sloths! But what it showed was jaw-dropping.
It was a map of what would be underwater in the U.S. from sea level rise if climate change continues unabated.
The dog stretched its legs, sniffed around, and laid down to rest. All totally normal dog things. Except this one was made of metal and settled itself into a charging station. All of the kids watching from outside a window cried “Awww!” They were crying in wonder of not just a dog, but a robot dog! How cool is that, right? Maybe.
Once I pulled the kids away from the window and bought tickets to get in the Boston Museum of Science (where we were), I discovered that the robot dog was part of a larger artificial intelligence (AI) exhibit. I talk a lot about using AI for science in work, so I was intrigued. How was the Museum of Science going to explain AI in a way that was interesting to non-scientists?
I stared at my face being reflected back at me from a shining silver surface. Beyond my reflection, there was a photograph laser-etched in black that felt very familiar. Activists of all ages and races yelled and held signs declaring the “People’s Climate Movement” in front of the U.S. Capital.
“I was at this event! Heck, you were at this event!” I exclaimed to my seven year old. We were at an exhibit called “Look Here” at the National Building Museum (shush, it’s much cooler than it sounds). The piece of art combined giant kaleioscopic sculptures with huge metal versions of childhood fortune tellers. Some of the fortune tellers had surfaces printed with photos of historic events in Washington D.C. Other ones featured the 1964 March on Washington and the AIDS quilt.
But to see this one – a photo my kids and I could have been in – was startling. It put us in the company of other people marching on Washington who made history. We were part of that group. We were part of history.
As I tend to tell it, my environmentalism started with grief and anger, at the young age of 10. I visited Homasassa Springs State Park and saw manatees for the first time. Their huge size and gentle nature enchanted me. As I watched them, my parents had to nudge me insistently to get me to leave. The same day, reading the informational signs, I learned that they were terribly endangered. I signed up for the Save the Manatees club that day and told everyone I could get to listen to me about it.
But in reality, my environmentalism started years before that.
Kids fly down my street on their skateboards and bikes to the nearby community center and I smile and shake my head. “I do wish they’d be safer on their bikes,” I mutter to myself, but am glad that they can do so. I think back to my mom talking about how she’d walk around her town as a kid and take the bus to the movies in the next town over.
Sadly, I know my neighborhood is a relative rarity in American society.
Sure, it addresses some mature themes like the patriarchy. But we talk about hard social issues all the time in our family.
Sure, my boys are explicitly not the target audience. But they read all sorts of stuff that centers girls and women, including Squirrel Girl comics and the Ramona books, and love them.
Sure, they won’t get all of the jokes. But that’s true in day to day life and they’ll get plenty of them, like Ken’s job being “beach.”
So I think they’d enjoy it.
But more importantly, I want them to be exposed to the messages it carries in such an accessible way.
This weather – the record heat, the poor air quality – is scary and exhausting for adults. But what if you’re a kid? And what if you’re a kid who has heard it’s caused by climate change? Instead of avoiding the term climate change when talking to our kids, it’s becoming more important than ever. But there are some ways we can talk to them that are factual, don’t inspire fear, and even help empower them.
1) Present the facts without panic. Say something like “The weather is so much hotter than it’s been in the past because pollution we’re putting into the atmosphere is making the Earth warmer over many years.” Or for the air quality issues, “They are having bad wildfires in Canada and the smoke is blowing down here. It’s worse than usual because the spring was so dry. The climate is changing because of pollution we put in the atmosphere.”
2) Talk about what adults are doing to fix it. This is a big part of not sparking climate anxiety. Something like “Many adults are working to build and improve clean sources of energy that don’t make this pollution like solar and wind. Other people are pushing politicians to do even more to address the problem.” If they’re younger kids, you can point out what high schoolers and college students are doing. They feel like adults but not parental figures, which may have even more of a punch.
3) Involve your kids in making systemic change. Have them envision what a truly sustainable community would look like to them and how it’s different from your own community. Then have them write to local policy makers to tell them what they think of climate change and what they would like to change locally. This is really empowering! Check out the Cultivating Climate Justice At-Home Family Toolkit for a template and more ideas.
4) Find ways to live more sustainably in your own lives and explain the reasons behind it to your kids, like switching to solar or wind power, eating less meat, biking/walking/ taking public transit instead of driving, etc. This doesn’t replace systemic change though! Check out my book for tips (and tips on activism too).
5) Make meaning together in your actions. Find ways to be fulfilled through more environmentally friendly activities, whether that’s more time together, building relationships with neighbors or friends, more time in nature, writing stories or creating art, etc. This will be what makes your actions personally sustainable as well as environmentally sustainable!
“What’s that road named after?” my older son said, pointing to the road that his elementary school is named after. He was in his “asking questions about why things are named what they are” stage.
“I don’t know,” I said. “We can look it up.”
That’s how we found out his elementary school is named after an enslaver.
