The idea of species extinction is different than one’s personal death. In the past, you could be assured that the human race would carry on without you – and maybe include some of your DNA in the form of offspring and descendants. But how cold and lonely it is to imagine everyone going out with you! No one left to witness and adjust (or drive the car).
For each of us, there is no “after we die” – at least not on this plane. It just stops – like the end of the credits after the movie, or like total body anesthesia (only in this case, you don’t necessarily wake up after what seems like only a moment). There won’t be anyone there to remember the sensation of being you. And if everyone else dies, there won’t be anyone who remembers humans. It will be as though we never existed. We say “there’s not the political will” to change things before it’s too late, which is another way of saying that “will” is an entirely individual phenomenon. Because there is no “us” – no such thing as a collective will. Only a lot of I’s who sometimes join together in bands or tribes by necessity or force. What difference does it make, really, whether I drive a car or not? The carbon dioxide is going to come from somewhere. And “we” writers are no different: each of us is intent on making our individual reputations and readerships (if we can), schmoozing up some, cutting others out. We fly across the sea to conferences to discuss environmental writing or give a reading of ecopoetry. We try to raise our kids as best we can, and we hope someone (else) will preserve a future for them. We write Facebook posts expressing shock and anger over creeping fascism. Greater love hath no person. It’s happening, folks. And if it hasn’t happened to you, it will soon. A few more years of relatively “normal” life, writing, publishing, maybe teaching? Or is it time to risk it all, go all in – accept bankruptcy, ridicule, injury, imprisonment, death, anything to try to slow down the destruction of everyone and everything you love? Even trying to adapt to the changes already happening is going to mean a much more radical change to our lives in the global north than we can appreciate. And it’s probably going to happen sooner than we think. Climate chaos will displace 200 million people in the next 30 years. What kind of poem would you make out of that? 200 million people with no choice but move.
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June 2021
Kristin Prevallet Author/Editor
I'm a writer & teacher in Lawrence, Kansas who actually believes the scientists. I wrote a book of poems called Of Some Sky that seems to have something to do with all this. |