A few days ago, I posted an article on this blog titled “Making Up Ethnicities” that had nothing whatever to do with climate change. My apologies–it was supposed to go on my other blog. I have now moved it. If you want to read it, you can–click here.
I’ve been saying, over and over, that we all need to vote. Maybe you agree—maybe you’ve already voted. I’ve already voted. But there is more to do to make sure others vote.
You can volunteer to work at the polls, though many polling places already have the people they need. You can encourage others to vote. You can make sure people are registered. You can help people figure out how to cast their mail-in ballots or how to get to their polling places.
As a reminder, this blog is not partisan, and it is neutral on all issues except climate change (and human rights, because, well, obviously). The only reason why this post is focused on getting the vote out for Democrats is that it is the only party with both a shot at the White House this year and any interest in climate action at all.
This blog would be thrilled if there were a real political contest between multiple viable climate action plans.
Things to Do
Here are some suggestions, ways you can volunteer.
Postcards to the Edge
There are a number of organizations this year attempting to get postcards to likely Democratic voters. The general idea is you sign up for a certain number of postcards, they send you blank cards, names, addresses, and a message, and you fill out the cards, add postage, and send them in. The details vary from one organization to another. Some may already have all their addresses spoken for, but you have a few days in which to jump in with others, if you want.
- Postcards to Voters You’ll have to get “approved” to write for this group, but it looks like they’ll also answer any questions you may have.
- Postcards for America I’m not sure what this is, frankly. I’ve followed the links on the website around in a circle without figuring out if actual postcards are involved. Maybe you can make sense of it.
Calling to Help
Phonebanking means you get a list of people to call and a script and then call people on your own phone from home (or wherever you are). Mostly you’ll be reminding people to vote, making sure they know where their polling place is, and so forth. I’ve tried phonebanking and find it anxiety-producing, but some people like it.
This is by no means an exhaustive list of phonebanking campaigns.
- Democratic Volunteer Center You can sign up here. They will train you.
- The Action Network They provide automatic dialing software, in addition to a script, which I think means that the organizer’s phone number, not yours, shows up on recipients’ Caller ID.
- Swing Left Lets you choose which swing state you want to call.
- Pride Night Phone Bank An action specifically for LGBT volunteers—though I suspect if you’re cishet they won’t turn you away.
Just like phonebanking, except you’re sending texts. A good option for shy people who don’t like to talk to strangers.
- The Action Network Again, the organizer’s phone number shows up, not yours. There are designated days for sending texts.
Need a Ride? Have a Ride?
Some people don’t have the means to get to the polls, so there are organizations stepping up to help.
- Carpool Vote You can use the same site to either request a ride or offer one, whatever your situation is. Nationwide.
- Arlington Democrats This one might be specific to Virginia, given the name.
There are many ways to help people vote.
I can’t decide whether to write yet another post about scary, freaky hurricanes, or another post about the importance of voting. Seems weird not to write about either this week.
We live in interesting times.
I’ll post later this week.
Hurricane Delta intensified from a tropical depression to a Cat 4 hurricane in just over a day (30 hours), and will likely hit the Yucatan Peninsula tomorrow (Wednesday) afternoon. On Friday, it will likely become the fourth named storm this year to hit Louisiana, where evacuees from Laura are still living out of hotels. Delta is the 25th named storm in the Atlantic storm basin this year, making 2020 only the second year this many have ever been named–and our Delta formed over a month earlier than the one in 2005 did.
Are you taking climate change seriously yet?
Probably you are, that’s why you’re reading this blog, which is why I want to talk about voting again. For years, now, a majority of Americans have wanted meaningful climate action, and yet collectively we elect candidates who do not deliver it–and who promise not to deliver it. What gives? Clearly there are many possible explanations, and most are probably at least a little true, but at least part of the reason must be that a lot of people don’t vote or don’t vote with climate change in mind.
This is the year that has to change
And I’m sorry, but voting for climate action means voting for Joe Biden.
I say “I’m sorry” because I really don’t like appearing to be partisan on this blog. I don’t work for the Biden campaign, and if I did I wouldn’t blog about it here because this is about climate change not politics. I’d like to say “these are the candidates who have strong positions on climate, pick whomever you like.” But that’s not the situation we’re in.
I’ve written about the issue of third party/independent voting at the presidential level before, but it’s time I do so again because there are some important things I haven’t said yet on the subject.
Look, I’m familiar with the arguments for not picking someone for president from a major party. I was a Ralph Nader voter, once upon a time, and I made those arguments. Some of them I now recognize as fallacies (for my exploration of the “there’s no major difference” argument, click here), and my thinking on the subject has evolved even over the past four years–but I still believe people deserve more than either major party is prepared to deliver.
The problem is that the general election for the office of US President is not an effective place to go get that “more”. It’s the wrong part of the cycle.
If you’ll pardon me summarizing some things some of you doubtless already know, I’ll explain why.
In a parliamentary system, people vote for whichever MPs they want and then the MPs get together among themselves and form a government. There can be zillions of parties running candidates, and several parties can all win seats. But in the process of forming a government they all organize themselves into two groups–the ruling coalition (which elects the Prime Minister) and the opposition.
In contrast, in the United States all the different voting blocs form coalitions during the primary season, eventually forming two prospective governments. At the election, one becomes the ruling coalition, headed by the President, while the other becomes the opposition. These two groups may have the same names for generations on end, but they aren’t consistently the same parties–the coalitions get re-assembled at least slightly differently every four years.
So in a parliamentary system the general election begins the process of creating a government, whereas in the American system the general election finishes the process.
The way our political system is structured, more than two people can stand for the general election as candidates for president, but only two have a shot at winning–not because they’ve been fore-ordained by shadowy powers-that-be, but because they’ve been chosen by an extended coalition-building process that includes lots of voter participation. It’s not necessarily the best system, but it’s the one we’ve got.
If you don’t like the kind of people who normally get nominated, there are a couple of things you can do about it.
- Support and vote for candidates of a different kind in local elections (or run yourself)
- Support and vote for candidates of a different kind for Congress (or run yourself)
- Support and vote for candidates of a different kind (or run yourself) in the primary
- Participate in the creation of a new major party, if you find yourself in a rare historical moment where one of the two majors can be replaced
Note that it’s fine to go third-party or independent in those first two steps because they happen largely outside of the coalition-building process that creates the two prospective governments–and indeed it was Vermont’s support of Bernie Sanders, a Democratic-Socialist, that allowed him to build the stature necessary to get very close to winning the Democratic nomination.
Alternatively, small-scale races make it possible for unusual people to win on major-party tickets who would not necessarily be welcomed by their party for a national race–and once elected, they can build the stature necessary to change who their party is willing to run. Barack Obama is a good example.
Voting for a radical candidate for local office–in hopes of someday being able to vote for them for national office–is one way to do it. Another possibility is that by supporting a new kind of local candidate one can help create the political climate that will change the parameters of who can get nominated nationally.
Consider that the election of Donald Trump–a man who was certainly not anointed by the Republican establishment and whose campaign in many ways resembled that of a well-funded independent–arguably began with the election of the Tea Party Republicans in local and state-level races. Over six years, Mr. Trump and his allies built a coalition capable of more or less becoming the new Republican Party.
There is no reason a progressive candidate could not build an equivalent coalition and pull off a similarly radical win, it just hasn’t been done this cycle.
It’s important to recognize that electing a president is a group activity.
Imagine that your company has given your department a free dinner as a reward for something or other, and that the group of you can decide where to go (let’s say this is pre-COVID). You all discuss it, and eventually determine that everybody either wants, or at least is OK with, either the pizza place on the corner or that Vietnamese restaurant you’ve heard so much about. Now, you’re deathly allergic to tomatoes, so pizza is absolutely out, but Vietnamese is hardly your favorite.
If you were alone you’d go for Moroccan, of course you would, but that’s not the situation–if you want to have dinner with the group, you’ve got to vote for one of the two options that is acceptable to the rest of the group. Doing something with a group of people often involves choosing something you wouldn’t choose if it were just you, but as long as you can prevail on your colleagues to not choose the tomato pizza, maybe you can enjoy a free evening out.
Not to trivialize the choice; it’s an imperfect metaphor.
Build the coalitions you need to build, people, but this year is not the year for anyone to dine alone–because we need you in the group.
The climate needs you.
September 22, and it’s been a day for dirges.
Nuni, my friend’s small white cat, felled by fleas,
lies dead beneath a heart-shaped row of stones
while Kendra’s dog plays host to tumors,
and Kofi Amman invokes the specter of a world 9 billion strong
I don’t know what will become of us.
I don’t know what blood
stains the momentum of our innocence.
there must be half a dozen PhD’s in this room tonight
and just as many guitars.
These are people who should know better
than to seek comfort in laughter, drink, and song
but these are also people who know we do not know
Joni Mitchell, Dave Carter, Bob Dylan,
voices thrown in familiar elegy,
the scientists invoke the sacred
the tapping foot becomes the thumping shaman’s drum.
Though rage and grief and fear may be implicit,
this yellow room is safe tonight.
If the Earth has a temple, we sing its hymns
and offer the ground our local-beer libations
with goofy, rag-tag grace.
In this puddle of life and light and laughter
in the exposed and urban night
this open, objective eye offers
its care-worn, fierce
Note: I wrote this poem almost ten years ago, back when I attended parties with scientists more regularly–hence the reference to Kofi Annan, who was Secretary-General of the UN at the time. That year, the equinox was on the 23rd, but I changed the date just now to match this year.-C.
Don’t worry, I do plan on writing a “real” post also, but right now I have a question for you.
The thing is, I can’t tell whether the visitation records I get for this blog actually include all my readers. I suspect it doesn’t, since some posts are listed as having zero views and I happen to know my mother reads every one (hi, Mom!). So who else isn’t being counted?
So please, you who are reading this post, leave a comment. Just say hi. I want to see how many of you there are.
It’s important, and not just for my own ego–I’m working on setting up partnerships with other organizations, and if I’ve got a large readership I make a more appealing partner.
Long-time readers will remember that I not-infrequently post essays about my own mental state, or the mental-health dimensions of the climate crisis more generally. The bottom line is that it’s difficult to take effective action when one is anxious or depressed, but climate change itself exacerbates mental health issues. There’s a vicious cycle at play, here.
So, I’ve started looking for solutions in books, and here I am, ready to cautiously recommend the first title.
A Clinician’s Guide
2017 Jessica Kingsley Publishers
Emotional Resiliency is a slim, easy-to-read book filled with lots of practical tips and some interesting information. It’s written for professional therapists as a guide for working with clients, but because the author expects those therapists to also work on developing their own emotional resiliency, it works as a self-help guide too, in a pinch.
Each chapter covers an aspect of the psychological dimension of climate change, such as denial, grief, or the trauma around disasters, and then presents a worksheet designed to foster introspection and growth. The latter half of the book is devoted to presenting 12 practices, mental and emotional exercises designed to help patients–or the therapist reading the book–to grow. The recommendation is to do each one regularly for a whole month.
The resiliency in the title is an important concept. The objective of the book is not simply to help people feel better but to help people remain mentally functional in the face of the various kinds of stress that climate change presents–that way, we don’t take refuge in denial, or get overwhelmed and just down, or any of the other things stressed-out people do other than take care of the problem at hand (achieving climate sanity and coping with climate disasters).
The assumption here is that stress will keep coming, and it may at times be severe, but we have the power to strengthen ourselves against it so we can be part of the solution.
I have not yet put the recommended exercises into practice, so I cannot vouch for them; they do look worth trying.
My reactions to the rest of the book are mixed.
The author has a pervasive problem with clinging to a highly simplified, feel-good narrative where personal growth (assisted, perhaps, by a skilled clinician) appears to be the only thing a person needs to effectively tackle the climate crisis. While I definitely see the need for focus, it’s possible to focus on a topic without denying the existence of other topics.
The fact of the matter is that some people’s efforts towards climate action are complicated by poverty, by ongoing abuse and injustice, or by physical or other disability. Can people who are poor, oppressed, or disabled still become effective climate activists? Yes–many have, but only by negotiating layers of additional obstacles.
I wish this book included information on how to deal with those obstacles.
The author not only fails to even acknowledge the existence of problems such as poverty or disability (which cause their own stresses that a therapist could indeed address), she also fails to acknowledge that climate denial isn’t an exclusively psychological problem. I can see an argument for a book like this not getting too deep into politics, but the fact that climate denial is being deliberately propagated and is not an inevitable outgrowth of human psychology is important to acknowledge particularly for a psychologist.
Further, the phenomenon of climate denial exists in a political, cultural, and economic context and is by now firmly wrapped up in issues of personal and community identity. A therapist who fails to recognize the reality of that context–and where the client fits in to it–is not going to be able to serve many clients well.
The third permutation of the book’s weakness may be harder for some readers to identify because it is pervasive throughout our entire culture.
I’m talking about frequent references to tribal culture that are little more than vague platitudes or bits of supposedly indigenous wisdom passed along by white people. She never mentions tribal peoples in any context other than as sources of mystical wisdom, and certainly never acknowledges any Native person by name or references any issue that Native people deal with in the here and now.
It’s racism. It’s also a serious problem for the author of this book to seem unaware that her readers might have Native people as clients or as colleagues or collaborators–any of whom might have trauma histories, perspectives, or resources related to their being Native and related to climate change
But all that being said, Emotional Resilience defines important conceptual territory–the idea of developing resilience, as opposed to simply coping with grief or fear, of building capacity like a muscle, is an important one. I found some of the information important food for thought.
And personally I find the reminder to attend to grief quite timely.
So for all the complaints that I have, I’m glad I’ve got the book. I intend to try out the exercises. And even the effort of sorting out which of her ideas are useful and which might not be–and what might be useful despite being couched in questionable ways–is itself a useful exercise.
On balance I recommend the book.
(Just remember the name of the author; the phrase “emotional resiliency” or “emotional resilience” occurs in the title of multiple books.)
I’m not feeling well. I’m on the mend from a stomach bug last week and still tire easily, so the intricate science-explainer I’m looking forward to writing will have to wait another week. But that’s how I’m doing–how’s my little corner of the Earth doing this week?
Well, it’s not on fire, so that’s good, but winter seems to have taken a break–we’ve had days of borderline T-shirt weather recently. I know that climate and weather are different, and cold weather in my neighborhood doesn’t mean climate change has taken a breather, but I still would prefer it. I still find warm winter days discouraging. I also can’t quite shake the feeling that if I complain about the unseasonable weather enough, climate change will hear me somehow and go away.
We do what we can to maintain our sense of normality in times when normal is rare and crumbling.
I took my dogs on a walk in the late afternoon. It was cold enough out to require a jacket, at least, and the rain had stopped, or maybe paused. A thick fog had settled in, putting halos around the headlights of the cars of people returning from work–rush-hour, of sorts, on our quiet street. We live among woodlot and farm field, among deer and turkeys who never let us see them (some of the neighbors doubtless hunt), and among vultures who come here to roost, rustling huge wings with a sound like shuffling paper as they get ready for sleep. The world goes silver and quiet on wet winter days around here, the fog against the muted colors of field and forest.
I heard the honking of geese and looked up. I couldn’t see them at first, but then they went right overhead, flying low, but almost hidden in the fog anyway, as if they’d been partially erased. The movement of their wings wasn’t visible in the blurry gloom, so they scooted across the sky with no obvious means of propulsion, like Star Trek shuttlecraft.
This is the world we live in. Won’t somebody make sure we get to keep it?
Stuff is happening in the world–fires in the arctic, notably, though there is other important news to cover. But for me to cover it myself would take time that I don’t have free this week for sad reasons that some of you already know. So instead I’m giving you this repost of a piece originally written for college some years ago but posted here back in April. I find it relevant today.
Just before Yule this past year, I was chatting on the phone with a friend of mine, Robert, while doing some sewing. I turned to do something in the kitchen only to discover upon my return that my cat, her ulcerated tumors bleeding again, had covered my workspace, including my dress pattern, with irregular, red spots. I hustled around trying to separate my patterns so they could dry and protect my fabric without interrupting the flow of conversation, whose subject seemed bizarrely civilized under the circumstances; we were discussing the genome of the grape and the proper ways to serve different kinds of wine while I stared, transfixed, at the red, Rorschached blotches like footprints, stalking, taking, slowly, my cat.
Here, observe, three views of life on Earth.
Saturday morning in January, warm, hot as May; the breeze moves, gentle, as I stand on the sidewalk waiting for the bus by the Ethan Allen furniture store and St. Phillips Lutheran Church, chickweeds growing in delicate riot by my feet, so far so good, but also dandelions, clover, greening grass, while the trees stand mute above like skeletons. This isn’t right; though the air is pleasant on my simple skin I can’t enjoy it. This weather is as apocalyptic as last summer’s heat waves when I lay, sick and dreaming, too hot to work, all thought, all feeling driven off by the eternal, heavy, heat, save one; this isn’t the way it’s supposed to be, but this is the way it is going to be, more often now, because of us. A funeral procession drives by, headed by slowly flashing police escort, dozens and dozens of cars of mute, hard-eyed people. Most of the cars have only a single passenger, or at most, two. An oil truck cuts through the line to make a delivery to the strip mall behind me, its presence as lyric to the day as a line of poetry. I wonder, whose funeral is it?
My cat wants to go out, and I can deny her nothing, except for all the things I have denied her and all the things it simply isn’t mine to give; this leash, for example, is a compromise between her exuberance and her body, too sick to take a rabies vaccine. She has never gotten fully comfortable outside and never developed her body to its feline potential; as far as I know, she has never climbed more than a few feet up a tree. Probably, she never will, now. Maybe she might have if I had simply let her out and hoped she didn’t get bitten, or maybe I should have gone out with her more, for longer. Who am I to draw this line here? Who am I to bring a cat in out of the sun just because I have something else I need or want to do? These are judgments I do not feel competent to make and I never have felt competent to make them through these long years of one kind of leash or another hanging between us, yet make them I must. Nothing that I gave her could ever have been enough to absolve her of further desserts. We walk, and she pauses to scent-mark the bottom twig on the lilac bush, rubbing it with her nose, her gums, sniffing it delicately. I sniff it after her and compare the scent to that of one higher up, above the reach of cats and foxes. I fancy I can detect a difference. She stalks a bird in the ivy bed, and I flatten myself out behind her, trying to move forward without frightening her quarry, giving her as much range as possible with the leash, my arm, and the length of my outstretched body. The bird must have flown while neither of us noticed, for now it is no longer there. The day is fine and high and blue, and she doesn’t seem to know she’s sick. Or, at least she doesn’t favor herself, she goes full-bore, always, along her small, plucky way. I mean, what else does she have to do? It’s not like she’s going to get better, it isn’t like she has time to spare in self-pity. She just plays the cards she’s dealt. This animal is a carnivore, whose kind prune and in so pruning, create the reproductive exuberance of small rodents and birds. Fed on organic ground beef through the agency of human loyalty and partisanship, this cat has lived almost nine years. In that time, how many steers have died young for her?
Walking through campus I can see that the remaining old elms are dying; they have brownish yellow stripes running up the grey and furrowed trunks. My Dad told me about Dutch elm disease when I was little; I have never known a time when its inundations were not part of my history, but as I’ve been watching, over the better part of thirty years, the pandemic has progressed and more of the great cambium fountains have come down. When I was little, I remember, the elms met over the walkways, across the greens. I remember walking, on Community Day, a visceral memory; the smell of cotton candy and funnel cake, a grown-up hand—whose? I only remember the hand—in mine, and above an arching green roof full of multicolored balloons escaped from the careless hands of other children. The greens are open, now, the places of most of the giants taken by smaller trees, another kind of elm, I think, their stems slowly thickening into adulthood. My friend, Robert, is an ecologist who is busy mapping the community types of my state. When I brought him here, on the way to a coffee shop, he remarked that the campus probably counted as Modified Meadow or Modified Hardwood Forest. He’s grasping at straws; this isn’t altered, this is new: American Collegiate, typified by dying elms, manicured grass and a fauna of Frisbee players, grey squirrels, and playful dogs. No matter how aberrant this slow death of trees seems to me, the elms would never have died in such numbers if they hadn’t been planted unnaturally thick to begin with.
Humans are capable of a certain impartial perspective, but at heart we’re partisan animals living in a non-partisan world. Global warming and human-associated habitat destruction are surely no more radical than the asteroid that marked the KT boundary. Life recovered, growing even more diverse in time, and will again; nothing stays the same for long. Similarly, the birthrate of any given species is adjusted to its mortality rate; if it takes three dozen mice born per one that makes it to adulthood to keep even with the hunger of cats, then that is the number that mother mice produce, yet every pup is an individual. One could say each mouse deserves a full and happy life, just as every cat does, but it is the nature of both cats and mice, in their fullness, to produce more than can so live; to lower the mortality rate would require lowering the birthrate which would change the nature of the animals’ lives. Anyway, which individuals don’t get born in that case? Isn’t it better to live for at least a little while? Like climate change and disaster, death and even personal tragedy are just part of how things work; if these things did not exist, life as a whole would be different and probably the poorer for it.
Yet we are partisan, and we must behave in partisan ways; we act, we do one thing rather than another, and so we must make choices based on some judgment, some assessment of value, even if the value is a purely private priority. Mass extinctions happen, and in the grand scheme of things may not actually be a problem, but I must throw my small weight either for this one or against it, and I do not want a mass extinction on my watch, on my conscience. Plants, animals, and diseases do invade each other’s territory; humans may be causing an unprecedented invasion, but we are not causing the only one. Communities adapt and change. Diversity will recover. Nonetheless, I want my trees not to die of some imported disease, even if their gothic branches were themselves an artificial presence. And I want my Gertie to have not had cancer to begin with, I don’t care if she’s no better or worse than a mouse or a beef steer–or me, for that matter, I wanted this one, this particular one, to get the proverbial sun, moon and stars. That I, a mortal human, couldn’t reach them for her does not reduce the injustice any less.
We live in a world of change and transformation; one thing eats another, one thing subsumes another, one thing takes another’s place. Even if it were possible to pick sides, once and for all, on moral grounds, it would not be possible on physical grounds, for not only does the success of a predator mean the failure of a prey animal–and vice versa–but it is the very opposition, the very dynamism of the system, that makes the system in the first place. Under whatever happy façade of civilization or rationalization, we are incontrovertibly members of a system where things break and change and die as an inevitable matter of course, without violating the integrity of the whole. Under whatever veneer of educated perspective, however, we remain organisms who fight and try to win.
This week has just gotten horribly busy. I’m preparing to launch my second novel on Monday, and that takes a lot of time. So, stop by my book launch party if you would (it will be on Facebook LIVE, if you can’t make it to New Hampshire) on Monday, if you would, and I’ll post here again on Tuesday.