Facing the Reality of Climate Change: Stories We Live By
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Chapter 1: The Illusion of Comfort
We often craft narratives to help us navigate life. Growing up in Phoenix, the heat felt palpable, shimmering on the sidewalks and transforming the Salt River into a blinding reflection. We were well-acquainted with heat; it was a part of our existence, shaping our routines. Yet, discussions about climate change were largely absent.
In this current era, however, climate change dominates our conversations. The tales we tell ourselves have evolved, or perhaps not evolved enough. I recall a man I encountered in Houston—let’s refer to him as Jim. Jim openly rejects the concept of climate change, expressing it as casually as choosing between scrambled or fried eggs. He has spent three decades in the oil industry, following in the footsteps of his father and grandfather. This is a common story in Houston.
Jim resides in a spacious, air-conditioned home with an unused pool in the backyard. His lawn remains lush and green, even during the sweltering August temperatures exceeding 100 degrees Fahrenheit. He waters it diligently, adhering to the local custom of maintaining appearances.
“It’s just cycles,” Jim asserts over iced tea on his patio. “The Earth goes through cycles. It always has, and it always will.” He conveys this with a conviction that makes me ponder what it feels like to be so steadfast in one’s beliefs.
On the day I spoke to Jim, the temperature was 95 degrees—in February. This fact seems to have no effect on him.
In the months that follow, I find myself reflecting on Jim frequently. I think of him as I read alarming reports of melting glaciers, rising sea levels, and increasingly severe storms. I picture him when I see images of wildfires ravaging entire communities in Arizona, a state I once called home, now transformed into a landscape of constant crisis. What narrative is Jim weaving for himself?
While in New York, I meet Sarah, who holds a PhD in climate science from Columbia University. Her demeanor reflects someone accustomed to skepticism, used to defending her knowledge. “The data is unequivocal,” she informs me. “The planet is heating up, and human actions are the primary cause. The ramifications will be dire if we do not intervene.”
Sarah presents me with various graphs and projections. All the indicators trend upward—warmer, drier, more extreme.
I can’t help but think of Jim in Houston, diligently watering his lawn in February.
In Miami Beach, I stroll through streets that now regularly flood—even during sunny weather. Locals refer to it as “sunny day flooding,” treating it as a normal occurrence, as if streets are meant to be submerged on clear days.
A real estate agent assures me that beachfront properties remain a sound investment. “They’ll find a solution,” he claims. “They always do.”
Who exactly are "they"? I ponder asking, but hold back. I already know the answer. "They" represent the faceless entities we expect to resolve our issues, the ones we rely on to save us from our own shortcomings.
In Washington D.C., I attend a congressional hearing focused on climate change. Scientists speak with urgency, sharing data and worst-case scenarios. Politicians nod seriously, asking questions that reveal a lack of engagement with the material. They appear to be performing concern for the cameras.
Later, I overhear two staff members discussing the issue in the hallway. “It’s irrelevant,” one remarks. “Nobody cares about climate change. They care about jobs and gas prices. That’s what influences elections.”
Again, I think of Jim and his unwavering belief in his narrative.
We create stories to sustain our lives. But what occurs when these narratives fall short? What happens when reality insists on making itself known? What if our tales are leading us to ruin?
Driving through California, I witness landscapes devastated by wildfires. The hills are charred and skeletal, and the air is thick with the scent of ash. I see signs for towns that no longer exist, swallowed by flames. In the rearview mirror, an orange sky presents an apocalyptic backdrop.
I recall the real estate agent in Miami Beach. “They’ll figure something out,” he said. Gazing at the scorched terrain, I wonder—what if they don’t?
Upon returning to New York, I meet Sarah again. She appears weary. “It’s challenging,” she confides. “Understanding what lies ahead and feeling powerless to stop it. Observing others deny the reality before them.”
I inquire why individuals like Jim refuse to acknowledge climate change. She sighs, “It’s simpler. It’s more comforting to believe everything will turn out fine, that change isn’t necessary, that sacrifices aren’t required.”
We weave stories to endure. But could it be that these narratives are endangering us?
In Houston, Jim’s lawn remains vibrant. The sprinklers operate on schedule, even as the city imposes water restrictions. His pool stays full, a bright blue rectangle amid a growing brown landscape.
“It’s merely a dry spell,” Jim reassures me during a call. “It will pass. It always does.”
I long to share with Jim the wildfires in Arizona and California, the flooding in Miami Beach. I wish to present Sarah’s data and projections to him. I yearn to help him comprehend.
Yet, I refrain. I know it would be futile. Jim’s narrative is too comforting, too ingrained. To abandon it would mean accepting that the world is not as he perceives it, that the future is uncertain, that everything may not turn out alright after all.
We tell ourselves stories to survive. Yet, sometimes, these stories are fabrications. Perhaps they are comfortable lies, or even necessary ones, but they are lies nonetheless.
As I end the call, I ponder what story we will tell ourselves when the comforting fabrications no longer suffice. When the heat transforms from a mere mirage to a force reshaping our reality? When the flooding in Miami Beach becomes a widespread, relentless phenomenon?
What narrative will we embrace then?
I am uncertain, but I hope, for all our sakes, that it is a story far superior to the one we presently tell—a truer account, one that might, just might, allow us to thrive.
Chapter 2: The Reality of Climate Change
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