I was a child in the 1960s. Sometimes I regale my daughter with stories about the changes I’ve witnessed, and, because I’m an ecologist, these trend toward the environmental. When I was a kid, people smoked in church, lead paint flaked from our walls, and DDT billowed through neighborhoods.
Faith, born in the 1990s, has her own tales of change. The evolving skill set that she’s had to master—from handwriting to Instagram—is way bigger than anything I had to deal with during my formative years of typewriters and pay phones.
And then there’s climate change, which arrived in her world with all the grace of a bomb lobbed through the window.
PHOTO ESSAY: The Arctic’s Devastating Transformation
In her young life, my daughter has seen the subways of Manhattan fill with seawater and the Susquehanna River swallow upstate New York’s I-86. When she talks about Sandy and Irene, she’s referring not to friends but to the evermore frequent superstorms that close her school and kill people.
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When Faith was born, the Antarctic ice shelf was 66% bigger. Headlines did not announce that half the nation’s birds are in trouble because changing weather has altered their habitat. The productivity of the world’s grain supply had not yet begun to falter for similar reasons.
On the Halloween that Faith trick-or-treated as a Monarch butterfly, there were tenfold more real-life Monarchs alive in the world than now. She hasn’t yet graduated high school.
“I don’t want to visit the Arctic,” she announced recently. “I just want to take ice caps for granted again.”
We all do. But halting the rapid changes to the climate system before we cross the ecological Rubicon requires the one rapid change that isn’t happening: a decision to leave 80% of remaining fossil fuels in the ground and pursue a full-bore affair with renewable energy. Because we’ve dithered so long, that’s the only course correction available to us that holds any hope of stabilizing the situation. So says the science.
But that change is nowhere in sight. When I visit my own mother—who lives in the house my father built in 1954—a coal-burning power plant puffs away outside the window. It’s the same puffing that I watched while riding my tricycle.
PHOTO ESSAY: Rising Pollution Levels in China’s Yellow River









