Freshman year of high school I decided to become a vegetarian, not really knowing my motives behind it or what it would teach me. I soon began watching all of the typical documentaries that introduced me to the idea of animal agriculture, and how these practices were one of the leading causes of fossil fuel burning. I was angry, hurt, and left wondering, âWhy wasnât I ever taught this?â
Since then I have always considered myself pretty conscious of my carbon footprint, so when I heard about the Amazon rainforest burning and the subsequent climate strikes, I felt called to join. I didnât have many expectations, except that the strike in New York would probably be one of the largest in the world. But that day left me with very mixed emotions.Â
I had no other plans for September 20th besides fighting to address the climate crisis alongside hundreds of thousands of other people. There were more children and teenagers who attended this protest than any other I’ve been to before, and after seeing them all I probably trust them with my life more than the people in charge right now. Even on the ride from Brooklyn into Manhattan, the J train was filled with families and young children with homemade signs, and I thought about how there was already a generational gap between me and these kids — kids who are literally forced to think about whether or not they will be able to live on a habitable planet for the rest of their lifetime, while my only existential dread as a child came from rumors that the world was going to end in 2012.Â
I attended the march with my boyfriend and two other friends, and when we got off the train at Chambers Street along with what seemed like an entire freshman class, we were greeted by the roaring of hundreds of thousands of other people. The crowd marched from Foley Square down to Battery Park, and before we even rounded the corner onto Broadway, there were kids standing on the ledges of government buildings and chanting with the crowds. They were so fearless and there was no authority in sight to even try to stop them. We continued walking down to Wall Street, and I had my own sign that I made that morning that said âPROTECT OUR MOTHERâ on one side and âCLIMATE JUSTICE NOWâ on the other. The rest of the signs were a mix between calling for action in a serious tone, and memes, all of which were very thoughtful.
We chanted, we screamed, we walked proudly, all united for one of the most important causes of our time. Kids stood on top of garbage cans and hung from the railings of construction sights. For one day we all got to see a glimpse of what our future would look like — a generation of people who make their own rules, are creative, and actually give a shit about important things.Â
There was anticipation as everyone neared the end of the route and began filling Battery Park, but the energy that I accumulated from the march itself slowly started fading as I stood in the lawn with songs like “Drogba (Joanna)” starting blasting into my ears. Sure, itâs a fun song to hear from cars driving by as Iâm walking through my neighborhood in Bushwick, but there was something about hearing it in this setting that felt disingenuous.
If the people who organized the rally wanted us to be having conversations about how to help our dying planet, they were being drowned out by pop music. My boyfriend and a couple other friends I met up with after even said it felt like we were at a festival, not a climate change rally. The speakers began coming on stage, and the first were a group called The Peace Poets, who performed spoken word rap songs and compared us to indigenous people on strike, fighting for their native land to be protected… really?
Already feeling drained, I decided to move to the outskirts of the lawn where I could sit against the fence and listen from afar. I was feeling discouraged by the two hours that were ahead of me and the lack of service I had to even check the schedule of the event, so I looked up at the trees above me and meditated on the reasons why I was there in the first place. After two people spoke about the health issues theyâve dealt with as a result of fossil fuel burning, I heard a group of teenage girls next to me go âJaden Smithâ?! as they fled toward the stage. I sat and listened for a couple minutes, but I was not interested in even standing up to see the show. Then Smith started playing the song âIconâ off one of his latest albums, and suddenly I couldnât even bear to sit there anymore.
As I walked out of the park, there was a middle aged man dancing around to the song, literally as if he was at Coachella. Itâs not like I donât understand or appreciate the impact of music when it comes to social change in the world, but at that point I felt like the day was full of empty promises. Even in between speakers when the organizers came on stage and asked, âHowâs everyone feeling?!â and the crowd roared, I turned to my boyfriend and jokingly said, âI mean, Iâm not happy weâre here.â Itâs like we were encouraged to dance and sing and forget about all our problems here, when thatâs exactly what we shouldnât be doing for like, two hours. Was it too much to just sit and listen? Did we really have to be entertained and encouraged to follow the acts on Instagram? As I walked out of the lawn back toward the street, a man stopped me to talk about an organization he worked with in the Bronx to fight climate change. While I usually do anything in my power to avoid handouts on the street, this person was actively using their time to get people involved in something that would actually create change. I listened to what he had to say, took a paper he was handing out, and thanked him, walking away with a little more hope than before.Â
On the train ride home, my boyfriend and I had a thoughtful conversation about what the day meant to us and how it left us feeling — and the feeling wasnât so good.
We questioned whether or not people were actually encouraged to do anything different, or whether or not these young children now had the idea in their head that protests were all about famous acts and a day off from school. The week following the strike, nothing felt different. Even after the UN Climate Summit, it seems like everyone in the world is putting the responsibility of this movement on one 16-year-old girl. There have been comments on Greta Thunbergâs Instagram like, âkeep inspiring us.â Are we all taking a backseat because we see one person taking action?
I applaud Thunberg for her bravery and acknowledge the sacrifices she has had to make to fight for a cause she believes in, but is she now accountable for the success or failures of the climate justice movement? And while itâs crucial to address the change that needs to be done on a federal level to rid our planet of plastics and fossil fuels, does that mean we shouldnât even try to change our individual actions? The point of this movement is to get us thinking about what we can do differently. If we are not consuming consciously, if we are still buying fast fashion, if we are still not aware of how much waste and plastic we accumulate, then how are we going to call out big companies for their carelessness?
I was sitting in class this week and the teacher had everyone say one thing they cared about. An overwhelming number of people mentioned the environment, sustainability, or climate change. Yet when I looked around, there were multiple people still scrolling on websites like H&M and Zara.Â
I donât think they even grasp the irony.Â
Photos by Nate Jerome.Â