July 17, 2024 • 58 mins
Future Ecologies presents "The Right to Feel," a two episode mini-series on the emotional realities of the climate crisis.
This first episode, “Climate Feelings,” is a collection of students’ non-fiction essays and reflections on their personal realities of living with and researching the climate crisis. The first episode opens with an introductory conversation between Naomi Klein and series producer Judee Burr that contextualizes how this class was structured and the writings it evoked.
Over a two-year period, associate professor of climate justice and co-director of the UBC Centre for Climate Justice Naomi Klein taught a small graduate seminar designed to help young scholars put the emotions of the climate and extinction crises into words. The students came from a range of disciplines, ranging from zoology to political science, and they wrote eulogies for predators and pollinators, alongside love letters to paddling and destroyed docks. Across these diverse methods of scholarship, the students uncovered layers of emotion far too often left out of scholarly approaches to the climate emergency. They put these emotions into words, both personal reflections and fictional stories.
“The Right to Feel” was produced on the unceded and asserted territories of the Sḵwx̱wú7mesh (Squamish), xʷməθkʷəy̓əm (Musqueam), and Səl̓ílwətaʔ (Tsleil-Waututh) peoples.
Find a transcript, citations, credits, and more at www.futureecologies.net/listen/the-right-to-feel
— — —
Part 1: Climate Feelings
2:38 — Introduction by Judee Burr and Naomi Klein
19:05 — Connection to Jericho Willows by Ali Tafreshi
22:27 — Connection to the Water by Foster Salpeter
27:06 — Connection to Family and Land by Sara Savino
31:01 — Scientists and Feelings by Annika Ord
36:00 — Biking away from the Smoke by Ruth Moore
39:32 — Climate Sensitivity on the Bus by Nina Robertson
43:13 — Grief and Climate Change Economics by Felix Giroux
46:36 — The Age of Sanctuary by Melissa Plisic
52:04 — Age of Tehom by Maggie O’Donnell
Mark as Played
Transcript
Episode Transcript
Available transcripts are automatically generated. Complete accuracy is not guaranteed.
Mendel Skulski (00:00):
Testing 1, 2, 1, 2.
Adam Huggins (00:03):
Wow, that is a fire.
Mendel Skulski (00:07):
That's hot. Well... Mendel,
Adam Huggins (00:14):
Adam,
Mendel Skulski (00:14):
this is Future Ecologies
Adam Huggins (00:17):
on vacation!
Mendel Skulski (00:18):
We are back at base camp for our annual —
Adam Huggins (00:22):
Semi-annual?
Mendel Skulski (00:23):
Semi-annual summit meeting. And normally
when we are here in theoffseason, we like to feature
episodes of podcasts we reallylike. But today, we are doing
something different. Today weare premiering a piece of
original audio, not from anotherpodcast feed, but from the UBC
(00:47):
Centre for Climate Justice.
Adam Huggins (00:51):
Mendel and I think of what we do here as mostly
art. But it's also a bit ofscience and a bit of journalism,
maybe a bit of sciencejournalism. And so we spent a
fair amount of time thinkingabout both of those things. And
they have some similarities,right? They're both primarily
concerned with uncovering thetruth, in a way. And both
(01:15):
science and journalism havehistorically been really
concerned with this idea ofobjectivity, right? Of like, an
objective observer that can thendeliver us the truth. And, you
know, that idea iscomplicated... especially in
journalism, but increasingly inscience, right? The idea that it
(01:36):
actually matters who is doingthe observing, and what
questions they're asking, right?In terms of what results we're
gonna get, and what the truth isgoing to look like. In science
as in journalism, we nowacknowledge that the observer is
actually affecting whateverthey're observing — they're
(01:57):
having an impact on the thingthat they are trying to
understand. What this piece isasking is what kind of impact is
what we're observing, having onus... as scientist or as
journalists, and in the case ofa lot of these students, both.
Mendel Skulski (02:22):
We're going to hand it off to Judee Burr and
Naomi Klein to take it fromhere. So, from the UBC Centre
for Climate Justice, this is TheRight to Feel.
Judee Burr (02:40):
Hi, Naomi.
Naomi Klein (02:41):
Hi, Judee.
Judee Burr (02:43):
I wanted to start by briefly introducing this podcast
series. For many of ourlisteners, you need no
introduction. But to introduceyou in the context of the work
we'll hear in this podcast: Naomi Klein is a professor at (02:53):
undefined
the University of BritishColumbia's Geography department,
an award-winning author,including of the recent book
"Doppelganger," an award-winningjournalist, and co-founder of
UBC's Centre for ClimateJustice. My name is Judee Burr,
and I’m a graduate student inthe Department of Geography, and
(03:14):
I took your class called“Ecological Affect” in the fall
of 2022. In that class, youbrought us graduate students
together to think through – andmore importantly, feel through –
our experiences of climatechange. We talked and wrote
about the emotionality ofgrappling with the changes we
are living through here onunceded Musqueum territory in
(03:36):
the Pacific Northwest and thechanges we are witnessing in
other geographies around theworld. The writings we did in
your class became the impetusfor making this audio story.
Can you start by telling me moreabout designing the class and
the experience of teaching it?
Naomi Klein (03:52):
Sure, and thank you, Judee. So, this course, as
you said is called "EcologicalAffect", but its unofficial name
was Climate Feelings. And Idesigned it in conversation with
my collaborator and researchassistant Kendra Jewell. What we
were specifically thinking aboutwas the work of young scientists
(04:16):
and scholars who are immersed instudying various aspects of the
climate crisis. What we know isthat these researchers who are
studying extinction who arestudying habitat loss and
glacier loss, live in the sameworld that we all live in —
which is a world that is verymuch on fire. So that work is
(04:37):
necessarily deeply emotional.But the academy — the academic
world in which they're beingtrained — often doesn't have
much room to recognize thosekinds of have emotional impacts.
And I remember really beingstruck by this in 2021, when
(04:57):
there was a devastating heatwavein In British Columbia, and just
seeing these reports that werequoting young scientists, many
of them still students — andwhat they were doing was
cataloging mass human andnon-human death because of this
so-called heat dome. And, youknow, what became clear is that
(05:20):
the scientists were essentiallyworking as undertakers for many
different kinds of life beinglost to the climate crisis. And
that was something that I hadwitnessed before in my
reporting. I had seen youngscientists doing desperately sad
work cataloging extinction inthe Great Barrier Reef in
(05:43):
Australia, in the midst of amass die-off, or in the Gulf of
Mexico on research vessels inthe midst of the BP oil
disaster. Scientific researchrequires a kind of distancing
and compartmentalizing whenyou're doing the work. But it
really had me wondering (06:00):
what happens to those feelings? You
know, these young researchersare not robots, and many of them
went into this work because theyhave a deep love of the natural
world. So I had been thinkingfor a long time that we need
more spaces or containers toexplore the affective side of
(06:22):
difficult climate research. Andthat's what this class was
really designed to be one ofthose spaces where we could
engage with those feelings. AndI want to be clear, we talked
about this in the very firstclass, Judee, that often when we
think about climate emotions,people immediately go to grief,
anxiety, rage — and we do all ofthat in the course. But we also
(06:46):
look at love and solace, and,you know, the positive emotions
that come out when we work inthe natural world. So I think
it's important for all of ourmental health not to pretend
that we are detached — toacknowledge that we all have
skin in the game. I think itmakes us better researchers. I
(07:09):
don't think it compromises us. Ithink it makes us better
colleagues and generally betterhuman beings. And that is going
to help improve our chances ofbuilding the kind of
countervailing forces that arerequired to have thriving
futures. So that's what it wasall about for me.
Judee Burr (07:27):
Yes, that really came through in being in the
class, and I really appreciatedthat space that you created. It
felt like everyone was eager forit. And talking about this now
hits hard. Last summer, I justfelt devastated witnessing the
effects of extreme heat again,drought, and wildfire in our
(07:49):
region of so-called BritishColumbia. I've been studying
land governance andenvironmental history in
fire-prone geographies. And thenin 2021 and 2022, I made a
podcast about the history ofliving with fire in the Okanagan
Valley in the southern interiorof BC. And so then this past
summer of 2023, I was watchingthe news from Vancouver as the
(08:11):
McDougall Creek fire swept intoWest Bank First Nation, West
Kelowna, Kelowna, and LakeCountry in the Okanagan. It sent
more than 10,000 peopleevacuating and destroyed homes.
It was devastating to witness.And I think that's the one that
hit me particularly hard lastsummer because I knew people
(08:31):
there, I was texting them, I'dbeen studying fire there. But it
was just one of the many firesin what was, we now know, the
most destructive fire seasonever recorded in Canada. The
evacuations from Yellowknife andthe Northwest Territories were
happening at the same time. Andthis was all just weeks after
the hurricane-fueled wildfire inLahaina, Hawaii killed at least
(08:51):
100 people, making it thedeadliest wildfire in a century
in the US. And so just thinkingabout all of this in the context
of last summer's fire season,and how it felt — it just felt
terrible. And in thinking withour class, I'm trying to just
sit with how bad that feels as away of staying in the present
moment, and grappling more fullywith what's happening and
(09:15):
thinking that those feelings cankind of keep me engaged and keep
me motivated to dream up adifferent world.
Naomi Klein (09:24):
Yeah, thanks for sharing that, Judee. It reminds
me... it takes me back to theclass and how I was often
struck. You know, this was avery international group. Very
few of the graduate students areactually from British Columbia.
And many of them, I think, likeyou, part of the reason why you
(09:47):
ended up in British Columbia isbecause it's a very beautiful
place. I mean, we're surroundedby natural beauty. But, you
know, there's a phrase that I'veused, and maybe you remember me
saying it in class, "BC breaksyour heart." Because we're so
close to it, but what draws usthere — and I include myself in
it, I'm a late comer to BritishColumbia, my parents moved here
(10:10):
when I was in university and Ijust fell in love with it and
decided to move here too — themountains, the ocean, you know
that these incredibly richIndigenous cultures. But we are
witnessing the collapse of thesalmon stocks, you know, this
keystone species that so muchdepends upon. So, you know, what
(10:32):
you're describing is — youshould feel it. It's healthy to
feel that. That's why you dowhat you do. And we have to stay
in touch with it. This past thesummer that you're describing, I
think, is the summer when a lotof people started paying
attention to Canadian wildfires,because, of course, the smoke
rolled in south of the borderand even reached New York City.
(10:55):
That was Ontario wildfire smoke,but suddenly it was
international news, becausethat's what happens when the
Brooklyn Bridge is coated inCanadian wildfire smoke, or
choked in it. Yeah, you know, Iwrote a piece in 2017, it's the
first time I really tried tograpple with what it feels like
(11:17):
to live in this very flammable,increasingly flammable
landscape. You know, everysummer that it seems like the
fires get worse. In 2017, Iwrote a piece called... the
original title was "Summer ofSmoke", then I think it was
changed to "Season of Smoke."And I wrote this line that I've
(11:38):
thought about often, which is,"it begins to strike you how
precarious it all is, thisbusiness of not being on fire."
And what I was trying to capturethere is this feeling of
flammability, you know, you cansmell it in the air, and you
really start to feel like itcould happen anytime. I hate to
even articulate this, but Isometimes feel like all of our
(12:00):
homes are just on loan from theflames.
Judee Burr (12:04):
Yeah, and something I've learned from Indigenous
Fire Keepers and knowledgekeepers and fire historians who
have studied this is... just howunreasonable of an expectation
it is to live in this part ofthe world and expect that we
could have a smoke-free, or afire-free life here. But
(12:27):
thankfully, a lot of people alsohave good ideas about how to
make those fires lessdisastrous, and how to bring
back fire at the right times ofyear.
Something else that struck me inour class and in curating this
audio story is the way that weforegrounded climate justice,
how climate change exacerbatesinequality and injustice, and
(12:47):
needs to be understood inconnection to structures of
capitalist and colonial powerthat have created it. The way we
paid attention to power in thisclass also encouraged us to pay
close attention to each of ourpositions in relation to these
structures. That's something youcultivated quite intentionally
in our work. Is that right?
Naomi Klein (13:07):
Yeah, I think it'd be difficult for me not to. This
is sort of how I came to reallyengage with the reality of
climate change. I'm somebodywhose work has focused on what
I've called disaster capitalism,and how, in the midst of crisis
and shocks, we often seeinequalities deepen. And climate
(13:32):
disasters are no different. Theyfollow the fault lines of race
and class and gender andphysical and mental disability
and hierarchy that alreadydivide and scar our world. But
at the same time — and this is Ithink, what has kept me in this
struggle, because that's allvery depressing — is that the
(13:57):
flip side of that is I reallydeeply believe that meeting the
enormous challenges of theclimate crisis means an
opportunity to heal some ofthose wounds. In fact, I think
it's the only way that we canrise to the systemic crisis that
we're in — the overlapping andsystemic crises. So we designed
(14:19):
a syllabus that is filled withgreat writing from many
positionalities. Black andIndigenous poets and scholars
like Leanne Simpson and RossGay, essayists like Kyo Maclear
and Julian Aguon. And I am avery firm believer that nothing
inspires good writing like goodreading, and good writers. So my
(14:42):
favorite part of the coursereally was witnessing how these
beautiful writers helped so manyof you access new and different
registers for your own voices. Ithink it was a safe place to
experiment with voice and theresults were incredible.
Judee Burr (15:01):
It was really inspiring. And as we'll hear in
this episode and the next, manyof the excerpts that students
will share today were inspiredby specific pieces of writing,
and they'll mention those in theintroductions to their excerpts.
So in this two-part audio story,we have a gathering of writing
on climate feelings. We askedsome of the students from the
(15:24):
class to record excerpts of thewriting and reflections. These
pieces take us through manykinds of emotions: from grief
and fear of climate change, andits uneven impacts to loving
observance of the beauty andcomplexity of the places and
planet we share. These authorsall have something to say about
what it feels like to build alife here and now as climate
(15:45):
change is happening. This firstepisode is "Climate Feelings,"
which gathers writings andreflections on climate change in
this present moment, includingsome examples of students
thinking about alternative namesfor the so-called Anthropocene.
We called those the "Age of"pieces as alternatives to the
Age of the Anthropocene. Thesecond episode is called
(16:07):
Eulogies. This is a gathering offictional pieces that we wrote
as part of a final assignment.And in that assignment, you
asked us to eulogize somethingthat could be lost to the
climate crisis, and then write afictional forward-looking
account of how that loss wasavoided or mitigated. And this
was an exercise in thinkingabout what we love and could
lose, and then, strategically,how to imagine opportunities to
(16:30):
build a different futuretogether. Naomi, is there
anything else that you'd like toshare with our listeners as they
go on this audio journey withus?
Naomi Klein (16:38):
Just that I'm so happy to have a chance to share
some of this wonderfulness withyou. Teaching this seminar
really was a joy. And the bestpart of the course was how
interdisciplinary it was. So Ireally want to stress this: that
we had graduate students thatcame from zoology who were
studying extinction crises incaribou and bees. We had physics
(17:00):
students doing glacier modelingand geography students like you,
Judee, studying fire andanthropologists studying New Age
conspiracy theories. And we alllearned so much from each other.
Academics often complain aboutgrading. You'll often hear
professors talk about grading aslike the worst time in the
(17:21):
semester. I had the absoluteopposite experience with this
seminar. I loved getting theseessays, particularly the longer
ones that you just justdescribed where different
futures were imagined. And Ioften had this feeling while I
was reading them, that I cannotkeep this to myself, that would
(17:42):
be much too selfish. And theseare too remarkable. More than
once I wept — particularly whilereading these imagined futures.
And I always hope to find a wayto share the work world more
widely. So I'm so grateful toyou, Judee, that you have woven
together this these podcastepisodes, where our listeners
(18:04):
are going to hear somehighlights from our class.
Judee Burr (18:07):
Naomi, thanks for teaching this class and for
talking about it with me.
Naomi Klein (18:12):
Thanks Judee.
Judee Burr (18:18):
This first episode is called “Climate Feelings.” It
includes three parts (18:21):
Part 1 – Connections; Part 2 – Changes;
and Part 3 – Names for a NewAge. In this episode, we will
hear excerpts from the writingsof Ali Tafreshi, Foster
Salpeter, Sara Savino, AnnikaOrd, Ruth Moore, Nina Robertson,
(18:43):
Felix Giroux, Melissa Plisic,and Maggie O’Donnell. We begin
with three pieces of reflectivewriting that center on
connection and care in achanging world. Here is Part 1 —
Connections.
Ali Tafreshi (19:15):
My name is Ali. I'm a PhD student working on
evolutionary theory at theBiodiversity Research Centre at
UBC. This is a reading inspiredby Robin Wall Kimmerer's word
for replacing "it" withrespectful language "kin" or
"ki" that acknowledges theanimacy all around us. The
writing is about two kin that Ioften visit: a pier and a pair
(19:38):
of trees in Jericho.
If you walk to Jericho Beachfrom 4th Street there is a grass
field at the entrance where twowillow trees hung out by
themselves. Always looking wellput together, even at night. My
afternoon breaks were walking inbetween them with my coffee and
back to my house. The pier andthe two trees were broken in the
(20:00):
same storm this winter.
For my birthday this year, thepier was filled with logs and
the concrete slabs of thewalkway that had been ripped
out. Each section of the woodenrailing held memories and
rituals, none of which werethere anymore. I went through
the broken pieces of wood, but Icouldn’t tell apart which piece
held what memory and which pieceI was supposed to do my
(20:23):
hello/goodbye ritual with. I saton top of the backrest of my
usual bench and got comfy withthe concrete leaning on ki. I
drank my tea, breathed in, andaccepted the wind. The wind
accepted me too, which I wasgrateful for. Regardless, it
felt like my birthday at thepier. It’s nice to be there with
(20:43):
friends when things aredifferent and its difficult —
even if you don’t know what todo in that moment. In that way,
it’s just nice to know ourrelationship is real, and after
a couple of laughs and sips oftea, the broken concrete and
logs are just where we are rightnow.
When I first saw the two fallenwillows, and stood still by them
(21:03):
with my coffee, an elderly ladycame and stood close by. We
stood there silently. She walkedcloser and looked at me. She
told me in small sentences thatthis is as sad as it feels, like
she knew I needed validation. Ididn’t say anything, I smiled.
She stood for a little whilemore, then left. The next day,
(21:25):
Jericho was flooded. The pondwith the beavers and ducks had
taken over the whole park. Itlooked magical. I walked with my
coffee to see what was happeningfrom all angles. Near when I was
about to leave, I was taking apicture of a tree that looked
different that day, surroundedby water. When I put my phone
down, an elderly lady wasstanding next to me, wearing a
(21:47):
bright yellow poncho and holdinga rainbow umbrella. She
confirmed how beautiful it is.She then stood there and looked
at the landscape with me. Shetold me she’s been coming to
Jericho for 20 years and hasnever seen it like this. She
said it’s beautiful and theducks seem to love it, but these
changes will destabilize thishabitat. This is climate change,
(22:09):
she said, smiling, while lookingdown. She was sad but she was
there with her park. She then,in her yellow rainboots, walked
into the water that hadovertaken the walkways.
Foster Salpeter (22:39):
This is Foster Salpeter and I'm a graduate
student in political theory,having just completed an MA
thesis on non-sovereignapproaches to food security.
This is a reading from areflection on the connection to
place.
Alexis Bonogofsky, a goatfarmer, an environmentalist from
(22:59):
southeastern Montana provides agenuine account of connection to
place. Talking about deerhunting, Bonogofsky says, “you
just watch these huge herds comethrough, and you know they’ve
been doing that for thousandsand thousands of years. And you
sit there and you feel connectedto that”. Bonogofsky then draws
(23:22):
a relation between “Thatconnection to this place and the
love that people have for it”.As extractive industries tear
through the region, Bonogofskyis convinced that it "...is not
the hatred of the coal companiesor anger, but love that will
save that place."
(23:42):
My rootedness to place passesthrough my canoe. For as long as
I can remember, the perfectcanoe stroke has been described
to me as one that connects withthe water. Often when we do
something or hear somethingrepeatedly, we can lose sense of
its meaning. I think this is whythe significance of this
(24:06):
language here only dawns on menow. Why is it that we describe
a canoe stroke this way? For theamateur canoeist, the intention
of the stroke is often seen asan attempt to pull water
backwards, as a way ofpropelling the boat forwards. In
(24:26):
order to perfect the canoestroke, a reorientation is
required. The intention of thestroke is not to propel water
backwards; rather, the goal isto root the blade of the paddle
as firmly as possible to thewater, and then to pull
yourself, bringing the boat withyou, towards that anchored
(24:48):
point, eventually gliding beyondit. In order to achieve this,
the paddler has to create thestrongest possible connection
between boat, body, arms, hands,paddle, and water. Establishing
this connection has a particularfeeling and sound that practiced
(25:10):
paddlers seek out. For auditoryreference, a coach once
In a given year, I aim to paddlearound 4,500km. At a comfortable
instructed me to listeen for andto recreate a "puck" sound, as I
pace, traveling one kilometertakes about 200 strokes. This
paddled down the lake.
adds up to 900,000 strokes peryear. I see that as 900,000
(25:32):
opportunities per year toconnect with the water.
Sometimes, on a calm day withgood visibility, I can achieve a
unique sensation that I cherishimmensely. After thousands of
consecutive strokes, when apractice becomes quite
(25:55):
meditative, and the movementmostly subconscious, it can
begin to feel as though mypaddle’s point of anchor is
larger than one particular spotin the water. As I fall on the
blade of my paddle, and drawmyself towards it, it is as
(26:20):
though I am being supported bythe body of water in its totality.
I have paddled and trainedeverywhere from pristine lakes,
to brackish lagoons, toindustrial canals, and even the
Harlem River in New York City. Ipromise, this described
(26:43):
sensation remains the same onall of these bodies of water.
They are all kin, and they areall equally deserving of love.
Sara Savino (27:14):
My name is Sara, and I researched the impacts of
deforestation on therelationships between humans and
elephants in India. This is anexcerpt from my reflection on
the lessons I've learned from mygrandfather about hope.
I spent my early summersclimbing my granddad’s fig
trees. They are his pride andjoy, and grow on a small, sunny
plot in the South of Italy. Mygrandfather would wake up at 5
(27:37):
AM most days to sneak in a goodfew hours on the land before it
would get too hot to work. Alifetime of making time for what
he loves and believes in hasmade him strong, joyful and
silly – even at 96, even as mygrandmother’s death has uprooted
him to the North of the country,and even as rising temperatures
scorch his now mostly abandonedland. In Ash Sanders’ “Under the
(27:58):
Weather,” Chris Fosterbeautifully proposes
“ignore-ance” as a word for“returning from a state of
consciousness to a willed stateof not knowing.” I would like a
word for the reverse too — aword for the moment you can no
longer ignore the emotionalweight of climate change, when
you first reach that state ofconsciousness. The moment the
veil is lifted and you letyourself feel it all. Reve-loss?
(28:23):
Covid lifted that veil for me.In the early stages of the
pandemic, it felt like we mightcollectively be reminded that
humans are part of a complex webof reciprocal relationships, and
be forced to reckon with theweight of that responsibility.
When the global consequences ofCovid quickly aligned themselves
according to the usual class,racial, and gender divides, my
mental health plummeted. Beingisolated didn't help, and
(28:46):
worrying about my friends andfamily did not help either.
Ultimately, however, it was therealization that, this too,
would be insufficient for us to“rethink the doomsday machine we
have built for ourselves” - asArundhati Roy beautifully
describes it - that dulled thatburgeoning sense of hope.
I don’t think it is acoincidence that those who
experience deteriorating mentalhealth as a result of climate
(29:08):
change are ignored, belittled orpatronized; that the words to
describe these experiences donot really exist. Depression,
anxiety, rage, fear, grief –they are more than justified
responses to what is happening.They are acts of resistance in a
culture that is trying to tellus we are selfish, uncaring and,
ultimately, alone.
(29:30):
Back to my grandfather. He is aman of few words and would never
proselytize for his belief thatconnection to the land,
reciprocity, getting your handsdirty literally and figuratively
are a balm for the aches thatmost of us are going through
right now. As an illiterateimmigrant who built a life for
his family in what was, at thetime, an especially under-served
(29:51):
part of Western Europe, his lifespeaks to those Randian virtues
of “Reason, Purpose, andSelf-Esteem.” And yet, he is a
passionate proponent of agovernment that fulfills its
social contract with its people,for a society that is built
around abundance, thatincentivizes love and care.
(30:12):
My grandfather is preparing fordeath. He has asked us to plant
a fig tree in our much coldergarden in Belgium. This small
transplant will have to get usedto a new climate, but should it
survive, it will ensure that hisvalues find root somewhere long
after he dies.
I want a word for the radicalhealing that comes from living a
life aligned with your values,as much as much as feasible in a
(30:35):
broken system; from plantingsmall seeds that might not
change everything all at once(what will?), but that might
help tip the scales ever soslightly in favor of a world
different from the one ourneoliberal Gods have designed
for us.
Avant-gardening?
Judee Burr (31:08):
As Naomi described in the introduction, this class
encouraged us to put into wordsthe complex emotions evoked by
climate change – yes, thisincludes sorrow and anxiety, but
also anger, wonder,appreciation, and love for our
changing human andmore-than-human ecological
communities. Now we’ll hearselections from students’
reflections on the emotionallandscapes of life in a changing
(31:31):
world. Here is Part 2 — Changes.
Annika Ord (31:39):
My name is Annika Ord and I'm a master's student
in Geography at the Universityof British Columbia. This is a
reading from my reflection onscientists and feelings in the
climate crisis.
I’m sitting outside in the sunwriting this reflection. It’s
February 7th but it feels like aday in late March or early
(32:00):
April. The sun holds heat, myhands are not cold typing, and
The last few weeks I’ve felt akind of whiplash, or I might
the birds sound as thoughthey’re celebrating, or at least
have a lot to say. Anothermoment of seasonal
disorientation. It feels commonnow, these days superimposed
from another season. Today, Icelebrate the chance to work in
(32:23):
February outdoors, to sit in mythoughts without the cloistering
of walls and distraction ofinternet tabs. Outside, with the
world; it’s my favorite way tobe. But still, this day feels
misplaced in the season; a voicetells me I should feel concern.
(32:47):
call it geographicdisorientation. The return to
screens, city grids, and zoommeetings contrast sharply with
my last month at home in Alaskaplaying in snow, shoveling
overburdened roofs, caring forboats and a dad with a replaced
knee, feeling deeply connectedto the place that is my home.
(33:08):
But it’s more than that. Thissense of disorientation grows as
I read of powerful climateemotions and datasets of loss,
while learning through a screenthat seems to reinforce the
disconnection from the earththat I’ve come here to question.
And it makes me wonder if theways in which we teach and
learn, work, and interact withthe world mediated through a
(33:28):
screen are reinforced by thisgreat divide. The divide that
allows us to emotionally detachand stand by as our only home
and out very existence hangs ina balance that is rapidly
deteriorating.
So here I sit. Outside in a daythat feels unreasonably warm, to
(33:49):
write while being a part of aworld that includes but is so
much bigger than human. Thereadings this week felt familiar
and personal. I appreciated thewords of Genevieve Guenther, to
write from a place that is bothtangible and local, and build
outwards from there. I found theletters from the scientists who
spoke from their own experiencesof climate change from a place
(34:12):
of emotional vulnerability andthrough story to be the most
moving. For some time, I havebeen trying to share in this
way. I am practicing now, and itis comforting to hear the words
of others doing the same. AriaanPurich’s letter gave me pause,
she spoke of terror for theworld her children would inherit
(34:33):
but also the world of today. Itmakes me reflect on a thought
I’ve had before (34:37):
will our own homes need to be the ones that
are burning or flooding beforewe are shaken awake? I hope not.
I’m having a moment, buoyed bythis outdoor writing. I imagine
classrooms and congresses,gatherings of world leaders,
(34:58):
held outdoors. Observing thesongbirds and lichen, making
carbon emission commitmentsbeneath rolling heat waves,
lining up for water deliverieswhen aquifers run dry, hauling
sandbags in relentless rain,learning how to find and pick
fiddleheads in the spring. Iimagine this from a place of
(35:19):
both love and rage. I appreciatethe practical advice of
Genevieve Guenther, “fight thepeople in power,” not the
“disembodied force” of climatechange. I think of the words my
advisor, Michele Koppes, sharedwith me — that we must bring our
whole selves to this work. It isheartening and energizing to
(35:42):
hear from others, like RachelCarson, Kim Cobb, and Joelle
Gergis, who recognize the powerof emotion to move people to
action.
Ruth Moore (36:09):
My name is Ruth Moore. I'm a geophysics master's
student in the Department ofEarth, Ocean and Atmospheric
Sciences at UBC. I research howclimate change is impacting
precipitation, such as rain andsnow in the Canadian Arctic.
It's October 2nd, 2022. myfriend Thankee and I decided to
(36:33):
go on a gravel ride towardsBunsen lake. We spent most of
the summer cycling around theLower Mainland on Vancouver
Island. Everywhere from theSunshine Coast to the Cowichan
Valley. We would bike pack,where we packed up our
belongings and embarked on twoand three night self-propelled
adventures around this beautifulplace that we get to call home.
(36:57):
Worries related to ecologicalbreakdown are easier to manage
when it's just you, a friend, atent, and some bear spray
against the elements. On thisparticular day, we decided to go
out and explore somewhere alittle closer to home in order
to enjoy theuncharacteristically mild autumn
(37:17):
weather we were having beforethe foreshadowed rain closed in.
This was planned to be anoverall mood boosting, head
clearing, adrenaline-rushing endto a week of working indoors.
When I woke up that morning, Ifelt a strange sense of
heaviness in the air and adensity that I had not noticed
(37:37):
before. As we ventured closer toCoquitlam we noticed that the
air was smelling smoky with astrange haze over the water. The
mountains were getting harder tosee. It was a wildfire of a
nondescript human cause, a firewhich would eventually halt our
cycling plans for the day andrequire over 20 firefighters to
(38:00):
tend to a blaze, which at timeswas out of control. Where I'm
from, we do have wildfires, butit's nothing to the extent of
what we get here in BC, andcertainly not in October, which
is meant to be a wet andsaturated month. The air was hot
and heavy and began to close in.With the visibility lowering and
(38:22):
in an attempt to protect ourlungs, we got the skytrain back
to Vancouver where the smoke hadnot yet arrived.
In the readings for this class,we had heard of stories of
people from communities whichwere affected by forest fires,
and specifically the ways inwhich individuals are learning
to cope with the heaviness. Weexplored and discussed how
(38:42):
climate change is affecting ourmental health. The ability to
stay cool and calm is beingdecreased. And individuals
everywhere are becoming moreoverwhelmed with the impending
reality that we all face. Theability to calmly choose to take
the train back to breathable airquality and remove oneself from
(39:03):
the situation is not the casefor those who have experienced
devastating forest fires intheir regions. It is therefore
difficult to reconcile with theconcept of climate anxiety,
since this is not just somethingwhich is happening in the mind.
It is tangible, here for us tofeel, mentally and physically.
Nina Robertson (39:42):
This is "On the Bus," by Nina Sky Robertson.
On the bus, I read the GranthamInstitute’s Report about the
impact of climate change onmental health and emotional
wellbeing. My phone's blue lightpenetrates my eyes, and nausea
almost overcomes me as thevehicle jostles forward. I eat a
piece of raw ginger to soothe mystomach, focusing on the burning
(40:06):
sensation under my tongue.Although I am reading, my
headphones are in. I am tryingto block my sensitive nervous
system from being overwhelmed bythe sheer volume of stimulus on
the bus – all those smells, allthose tiny beautiful moments and
interactions between strangers,all those days and hopes and
worries playing on peoplesfaces.
(40:26):
I am reminded of a vignetteSally Weintrobe uses in her book
"Psychological Roots of theClimate Crisis" to introduce
systems of care. In the scene,tension rises between a disabled
man and a young father on thebus, on a bus just like this. I
wonder what it would look liketo create a system of care that
supported people like me, peoplewho are extremely sensitive, to
(40:50):
ride the bus or adequately dealwith climate change? Although
later I would learn thatsensitivity can result from
trauma, then I understood mysensitivity as a kind of mental
health death sentence, or as thepre-curser to the psychiatric
maladies which haunt me. For aslong as I can remember the
distinction between myself andothers has felt quite thin. In a
(41:13):
world plagued by inequalities,extraction, and abuse, by the
cruelty of capitalism and thepermutations of trauma,
disconnection, dissociation andun-meaning, being hyper-aware is
a difficult state to maintainwithout dipping into periods of
personal suffering, fugue statesof overwhelm.
The Grantham Report andWeintrobe’s book ask, when it
(41:34):
comes to climate change is thatsuffering not rational? But from
my seat, as someone with whatthe report calls “pre-existing
mental illnesses”, I wounder ifmy sensitivity-induced
experience has ever beenun-rational? It’s not a gripe or
criticism, but a statement ofappreciation for a discourse
broaching collectivity. Systemsof care designed to support the
(41:56):
sensitive, ill, or disabled willbe better equipped support us
all. It is a well-known designphenomena called the curb-cut
effect. And so, it is no wonderthat the Institute’s number one
recommendation may be boileddown to take action on climate
change itself in order to dealwith the emerging
climate-related mental healthcrisis.
(42:17):
I cry as we jostle throughRailtown and along Powell. I
feel strangely seen by thelegalistic call to action. I
have often felt gas-lit by thosebetter able to direct their
attention and modulate theiremotional intensity, for my
concerns over climate change,for my worries about how systems
fail people, and how trauma isfolded through generations. This
(42:40):
is the first time I haveencountered a narrative that
describes my experience as arational reaction to a world
gone awry, rather then apersonal or biological
deficiency, and it feels goodand true to be understood as an
organism who lives in relationwith the world.
The driver turns a blind eye towoman who smells of oranges and
(43:00):
gets on the bus through the backdoors, while a man in a thin
coat shouts his thanks andthumps the window next to me.
Felix Giroux (43:27):
My name is Felix Giroux, and this is a reading
from my reflective essay.
On October 28, 2021 – alreadythree years ago – Lord Stern
gave a talk to celebrate 15years since he published his
well-known report, "TheEconomics of Climate Change: The
Stern Review."
In the conference hall, thereweren’t a lot of people as we
(43:49):
were all spaced out two metresapart. I sat in the back,
thinking I was just there tolisten, take notes, and prepare
for COP26, which was a few weeksaway. His talk was full of "new
speak" and “bank speak”,promoting the idea that
innovation, growth, investmentsand global shifts will solve the
problem of GHG emissions. Heended his presentation on the
(44:13):
hope that young people gave him,referring to Fridays for the
Future and other youth activistgroups, mostly from the global
North. At that moment, Icouldn’t understand how he
connected innovation,investment, and youth as the
solutions to the climate crisis.In what world does bank speak
AND rebellion against bank speakmake sense?
(44:36):
One of the first questions camefrom a student, wondering if and
how capitalism was responsibleand how his models accounted for
radical systems change. Hebrushed the answer off, replying
that we didn’t have time tochange the system. I raised my
hand. I asked something alongthe lines of “how dare you use
(44:59):
young climate activists as asolution for the future in your
slides alongside mainstreamcapitalist ideas of investment
and innovation? As young people,our politics are the opposite of
what you’ve just presented!” Atleast, that’s what I was trying
to express. His reply was ashort lecture on Amartya Sen’s
definition of justice, notanswering my question at all.
(45:21):
After his talk, I walked up tohim to ask if he would accept a
meeting at COP26 with youthclimate activists so they could
express their climate politicsand understandings of climate
justice. He refused, statingthat he was too busy at COP
meeting with world leaders.
This was supposed to be aclimate champion, heralded by
(45:43):
mainstream environmentalists andthe UK government for his work
on climate economics. Theclimate crisis doesn’t come from
one single source, GHGemissions; it’s the symptom of
larger problems like capitalismand colonialism. We can't just
put a price on carbon and expectthe market to solve it. I think
(46:03):
back on this moment, and I’mrealizing I should have grieved.
Grieved for the system that Iwish we could have. Grieved for
the change Stern is refusing.Grieved for loss. Loss of words,
loss of understanding, loss ofsolidarity. Our loss.
Judee Burr (46:31):
We’ll end the episode with two readings from
an assignment to re-name what isoften called “the Anthropocene”
— to put our own ideas into thename of this moment of living on
a damaged and unequal planet.Here is Part 3 — Names for a New
(46:56):
Age.
Melissa Plisic (47:05):
Howdy, my name is Melissa Plisic, and I do work
in critical animal studies andqueer ecologies. This is an
excerpt from my poem "The Age ofSanctuary."
Welcome to the Age of Sanctuary.Searching for sanctuary means
you’ve been dealing with someserious shit. Refuge is good,
(47:28):
but short-term, plus I want toavoid the ricochets of
xenophobia that one extra "E"makes. Refugees have human
rights. Sanctuaries havesomething less flimsy.
Sanctuary is sacred, unlikeEden. You are never alone even
(47:52):
if you are the only homo sapienssapiens. It means you breathe
with the community that holdsyou. The Age of Sanctuary is
beyond time — always alreadyhappening, always a possibility.
Exists independent of you,exists within you, if you know
(48:16):
where to look — never the sameway twice. Eluding time, to
catch it is to be profoundlypresent. Sanctuary does not ask
for hope when quieting a franticheart, does not ask you to
pretend to be okay. Sanctuary iswhere you can lick your wounds,
(48:41):
and gather strength for the taskat hand.
This summer I visited Torontofor the first time for The North
American Association forCritical Animal Studies First
Biennial Meeting On Extinction.Three extraordinary days of
preaching to the choir, threeattendees under thirty and
(49:04):
queer. A recipe forinstant-friendship, and a crush
or two. On Saturday morningbefore my flight, I invited them
to Allen Gardens Conservatory, a10-minute walk from the Holiday
Inn Express Toronto Downtown.Let’s look at all these exotic
plants that need constantwatering and pruning and
(49:26):
probably heating had it not beenmid-August. I was skeptical but
ultimately a tourist, and I hadsmoked a joint outside waiting
for my friends while listeningto the cicadas. So at least I
was enjoying it, but alsoresisting the urge to tell my
new comrades that despite thegreenhouse’s illusion of
(49:50):
outdoor-ness, inside voiceswould be more appropriate.
I walked ahead to passively lookfor some peace and quiet, turned
the corner to find a small koipond, all green with dots and
slashes of red, beneath a stonestatue of a nude maiden holding
(50:13):
a pitcher mid-pour, gazing ather duck friend, the duck gazing
back. The koi looked small,compared to those I usually see
outdoors. But these koi, thesewere babies. Some actual babies.
Feeling magic, I was consumed bythe pond for a moment with a
(50:38):
white woman a generation or twoolder than me. Then a Black man
a generation or two older thanme wearing an Allen Gardens
t-shirt, dirty jeans, and workboots came over and started
talking to the fish, himself,the woman, me, nobody, all of
(50:59):
the above. He said that in the17 years of working there,
taking care of this pond, thiswas the first time there had
been baby koi. He told them howhappy he was to see them, how
proud he was of them, how muchhe loved them. He was so taken
(51:24):
by these koi — radiating so muchawe, that my friends who caught
up finally shut up. Then he toldthem he’d be back soon and went
on his day. My friends were moreattuned after that.
Maggie O’Donnell (52:08):
Hi, I'm Maggie O'Donnell. I'm a master's
student in geography, and Istudy urban environmental
politics. This is part of myessay "Age of Tehom."
"When God began to create theheavens and the earth, the earth
was complete chaos, and darknesscovered the face of the deep,
while a wind from God swept overthe face of the waters. Then God
said, 'Let there be light,' andthere was light. And God saw
(52:28):
that the light was good, and Godseparated the light from the
darkness.” (Genesis 1 (52:38):
1-4, NRSV)
Since the second century,Christian theologians have used
the first verses of the Book ofGenesis to advance the doctrine
of creation ex nihilo or“creation from nothing.” On this
basis, the beginning begins withGod, ascribing order and form
where there was chaos andcreating light where it was
formerly dark. The supremacy oforder and lightness was
(53:02):
reinforced in subsequentcenturies, at the expense of the
deep, translated from the Hebrewtehom, and those identified with
the feminine, dark, or mysticalOther.
When I considered how I couldintervene productively in the
ongoing conversations about theAnthropocene, I turned to the
relationship Western society haswith tehom, as both a possible
(53:23):
origin point for chronicling ourcurrent unfolding ecological
crisis, and also as a place tolook to now for a potential
source of a new beginning. Byembracing the tehomic waters of
the primordial moment, alongwith the ways those who embody
its depths continue to resisterasure, we might start to
imagine a collective path towarda different future.
(53:45):
The relegation of tehom to theedges of the creation story —
God creates and there’s nolooking back — sparked a pattern
of violent oppression andmarginalization repeated
throughout Western Europe’spursuit to control the globe. As
Whitney Bauman cogently arguesin his chapter “Creatio ex
Nihilo, and the Erasure ofPresence,” the doctrine of
(54:06):
creation ex nihilo directlyinformed the colonial legal
concept of terra nullius byallowing European colonizers to
justify their suppression andannihilation of indigenous
peoples as part of a largerordained missions to spread
order and eradicate chaos.
These histories all feed, and,as a result, sustain what
(54:28):
theologian Catherine Kellerrefers to as Western
Christianity’s “dominology.”Keller elaborated on this
dominology stating,“Appropriation and annihilation
comprise the twin idols ofdominology, the engines by which
the denigrated chaos (itspeoples, its species) gets
reduced either to raw stuff foruse, or simply to nothing.” From
(54:52):
the exploitation of migrant farmworkers expected to toil in
extreme heat to theproliferation of sacrifice zones
in racialized communities alongLouisiana’s “Cancer Alley” these
engines of dominology continueinto the present, fueling
cultural destruction andecological collapse. For those
with dark, mysterious,disordered, feminine, or
(55:14):
otherwise tehomic qualities,these devices of dominology
compound into a constant,crushing weight.
This is not to say that thosewho have been consigned to the
depths, including varioustehomic human and
more-than-human kin, arepowerless in resisting the
hegemonic structures ofoppression. In fact, the
hard-fought successes won byIndigenous peoples fighting for
(55:36):
land repatriation and youngpeople engaged in intersectional
climate justice protestsdemanding government
accountability illustrate bestthe fissures in settler colonial
dominology.
Our collective relationship totehom will determine how we face
the future. We can turn to thespace colonizers, lab meat
moguls, and carbon creditfinanciers to sweep down and
(56:00):
blow their winds of technocraticclimate solutions over the face
of our unfolding polycrisis. Orwe could dive into the tehom.
Swim in the depths. Lose trackof where our limbs, swirling and
kicking, end and where thewaters begin. We could begin the
story of a new age with one thatis very old, one that humbly
invites you to consider findingthreads of even earlier
(56:22):
cosmologies within its layersand shadows. An origin story
that welcomes an infinity oforigin stories.
Judee Burr (56:40):
We'd like to thank all of the students who
contributed their work to thisepisode, and everyone in the
Ecological Affect class whosethoughtful ideas fostered such
generative discussion andmeaningful writing. Thanks also
to Kendra Jewell, AudreyIrvine-Broque, Lorah Steichen,
and Maggie O’Donnell for theirsupport in reviewing drafts of
this audio story. Finally, we’dlike to thank the University of
(57:02):
British Columbia’s Hampton Grantprogram for funding work on this
project. Now make sure to listento the second and final episode
in this series — "Eulogies"
Thanks for listening.
Testing 1, 2, 1, 2.
Adam Huggins (00:03):
Wow, that is a fire.
Mendel Skulski (00:07):
That's hot. Well... Mendel,
Adam Huggins (00:14):
Adam,
Mendel Skulski (00:14):
this is Future Ecologies
Adam Huggins (00:17):
on vacation!
Mendel Skulski (00:18):
We are back at base camp for our annual —
Adam Huggins (00:22):
Semi-annual?
Mendel Skulski (00:23):
Semi-annual summit meeting. And normally
when we are here in theoffseason, we like to feature
episodes of podcasts we reallylike. But today, we are doing
something different. Today weare premiering a piece of
original audio, not from anotherpodcast feed, but from the UBC
(00:47):
Centre for Climate Justice.
Adam Huggins (00:51):
Mendel and I think of what we do here as mostly
art. But it's also a bit ofscience and a bit of journalism,
maybe a bit of sciencejournalism. And so we spent a
fair amount of time thinkingabout both of those things. And
they have some similarities,right? They're both primarily
concerned with uncovering thetruth, in a way. And both
(01:15):
science and journalism havehistorically been really
concerned with this idea ofobjectivity, right? Of like, an
objective observer that can thendeliver us the truth. And, you
know, that idea iscomplicated... especially in
journalism, but increasingly inscience, right? The idea that it
(01:36):
actually matters who is doingthe observing, and what
questions they're asking, right?In terms of what results we're
gonna get, and what the truth isgoing to look like. In science
as in journalism, we nowacknowledge that the observer is
actually affecting whateverthey're observing — they're
(01:57):
having an impact on the thingthat they are trying to
understand. What this piece isasking is what kind of impact is
what we're observing, having onus... as scientist or as
journalists, and in the case ofa lot of these students, both.
Mendel Skulski (02:22):
We're going to hand it off to Judee Burr and
Naomi Klein to take it fromhere. So, from the UBC Centre
for Climate Justice, this is TheRight to Feel.
Judee Burr (02:40):
Hi, Naomi.
Naomi Klein (02:41):
Hi, Judee.
Judee Burr (02:43):
I wanted to start by briefly introducing this podcast
series. For many of ourlisteners, you need no
introduction. But to introduceyou in the context of the work
we'll hear in this podcast: Naomi Klein is a professor at (02:53):
undefined
the University of BritishColumbia's Geography department,
an award-winning author,including of the recent book
"Doppelganger," an award-winningjournalist, and co-founder of
UBC's Centre for ClimateJustice. My name is Judee Burr,
and I’m a graduate student inthe Department of Geography, and
(03:14):
I took your class called“Ecological Affect” in the fall
of 2022. In that class, youbrought us graduate students
together to think through – andmore importantly, feel through –
our experiences of climatechange. We talked and wrote
about the emotionality ofgrappling with the changes we
are living through here onunceded Musqueum territory in
(03:36):
the Pacific Northwest and thechanges we are witnessing in
other geographies around theworld. The writings we did in
your class became the impetusfor making this audio story.
Can you start by telling me moreabout designing the class and
the experience of teaching it?
Naomi Klein (03:52):
Sure, and thank you, Judee. So, this course, as
you said is called "EcologicalAffect", but its unofficial name
was Climate Feelings. And Idesigned it in conversation with
my collaborator and researchassistant Kendra Jewell. What we
were specifically thinking aboutwas the work of young scientists
(04:16):
and scholars who are immersed instudying various aspects of the
climate crisis. What we know isthat these researchers who are
studying extinction who arestudying habitat loss and
glacier loss, live in the sameworld that we all live in —
which is a world that is verymuch on fire. So that work is
(04:37):
necessarily deeply emotional.But the academy — the academic
world in which they're beingtrained — often doesn't have
much room to recognize thosekinds of have emotional impacts.
And I remember really beingstruck by this in 2021, when
(04:57):
there was a devastating heatwavein In British Columbia, and just
seeing these reports that werequoting young scientists, many
of them still students — andwhat they were doing was
cataloging mass human andnon-human death because of this
so-called heat dome. And, youknow, what became clear is that
(05:20):
the scientists were essentiallyworking as undertakers for many
different kinds of life beinglost to the climate crisis. And
that was something that I hadwitnessed before in my
reporting. I had seen youngscientists doing desperately sad
work cataloging extinction inthe Great Barrier Reef in
(05:43):
Australia, in the midst of amass die-off, or in the Gulf of
Mexico on research vessels inthe midst of the BP oil
disaster. Scientific researchrequires a kind of distancing
and compartmentalizing whenyou're doing the work. But it
really had me wondering (06:00):
what happens to those feelings? You
know, these young researchersare not robots, and many of them
went into this work because theyhave a deep love of the natural
world. So I had been thinkingfor a long time that we need
more spaces or containers toexplore the affective side of
(06:22):
difficult climate research. Andthat's what this class was
really designed to be one ofthose spaces where we could
engage with those feelings. AndI want to be clear, we talked
about this in the very firstclass, Judee, that often when we
think about climate emotions,people immediately go to grief,
anxiety, rage — and we do all ofthat in the course. But we also
(06:46):
look at love and solace, and,you know, the positive emotions
that come out when we work inthe natural world. So I think
it's important for all of ourmental health not to pretend
that we are detached — toacknowledge that we all have
skin in the game. I think itmakes us better researchers. I
(07:09):
don't think it compromises us. Ithink it makes us better
colleagues and generally betterhuman beings. And that is going
to help improve our chances ofbuilding the kind of
countervailing forces that arerequired to have thriving
futures. So that's what it wasall about for me.
Judee Burr (07:27):
Yes, that really came through in being in the
class, and I really appreciatedthat space that you created. It
felt like everyone was eager forit. And talking about this now
hits hard. Last summer, I justfelt devastated witnessing the
effects of extreme heat again,drought, and wildfire in our
(07:49):
region of so-called BritishColumbia. I've been studying
land governance andenvironmental history in
fire-prone geographies. And thenin 2021 and 2022, I made a
podcast about the history ofliving with fire in the Okanagan
Valley in the southern interiorof BC. And so then this past
summer of 2023, I was watchingthe news from Vancouver as the
(08:11):
McDougall Creek fire swept intoWest Bank First Nation, West
Kelowna, Kelowna, and LakeCountry in the Okanagan. It sent
more than 10,000 peopleevacuating and destroyed homes.
It was devastating to witness.And I think that's the one that
hit me particularly hard lastsummer because I knew people
(08:31):
there, I was texting them, I'dbeen studying fire there. But it
was just one of the many firesin what was, we now know, the
most destructive fire seasonever recorded in Canada. The
evacuations from Yellowknife andthe Northwest Territories were
happening at the same time. Andthis was all just weeks after
the hurricane-fueled wildfire inLahaina, Hawaii killed at least
(08:51):
100 people, making it thedeadliest wildfire in a century
in the US. And so just thinkingabout all of this in the context
of last summer's fire season,and how it felt — it just felt
terrible. And in thinking withour class, I'm trying to just
sit with how bad that feels as away of staying in the present
moment, and grappling more fullywith what's happening and
(09:15):
thinking that those feelings cankind of keep me engaged and keep
me motivated to dream up adifferent world.
Naomi Klein (09:24):
Yeah, thanks for sharing that, Judee. It reminds
me... it takes me back to theclass and how I was often
struck. You know, this was avery international group. Very
few of the graduate students areactually from British Columbia.
And many of them, I think, likeyou, part of the reason why you
(09:47):
ended up in British Columbia isbecause it's a very beautiful
place. I mean, we're surroundedby natural beauty. But, you
know, there's a phrase that I'veused, and maybe you remember me
saying it in class, "BC breaksyour heart." Because we're so
close to it, but what draws usthere — and I include myself in
it, I'm a late comer to BritishColumbia, my parents moved here
(10:10):
when I was in university and Ijust fell in love with it and
decided to move here too — themountains, the ocean, you know
that these incredibly richIndigenous cultures. But we are
witnessing the collapse of thesalmon stocks, you know, this
keystone species that so muchdepends upon. So, you know, what
(10:32):
you're describing is — youshould feel it. It's healthy to
feel that. That's why you dowhat you do. And we have to stay
in touch with it. This past thesummer that you're describing, I
think, is the summer when a lotof people started paying
attention to Canadian wildfires,because, of course, the smoke
rolled in south of the borderand even reached New York City.
(10:55):
That was Ontario wildfire smoke,but suddenly it was
international news, becausethat's what happens when the
Brooklyn Bridge is coated inCanadian wildfire smoke, or
choked in it. Yeah, you know, Iwrote a piece in 2017, it's the
first time I really tried tograpple with what it feels like
(11:17):
to live in this very flammable,increasingly flammable
landscape. You know, everysummer that it seems like the
fires get worse. In 2017, Iwrote a piece called... the
original title was "Summer ofSmoke", then I think it was
changed to "Season of Smoke."And I wrote this line that I've
(11:38):
thought about often, which is,"it begins to strike you how
precarious it all is, thisbusiness of not being on fire."
And what I was trying to capturethere is this feeling of
flammability, you know, you cansmell it in the air, and you
really start to feel like itcould happen anytime. I hate to
even articulate this, but Isometimes feel like all of our
(12:00):
homes are just on loan from theflames.
Judee Burr (12:04):
Yeah, and something I've learned from Indigenous
Fire Keepers and knowledgekeepers and fire historians who
have studied this is... just howunreasonable of an expectation
it is to live in this part ofthe world and expect that we
could have a smoke-free, or afire-free life here. But
(12:27):
thankfully, a lot of people alsohave good ideas about how to
make those fires lessdisastrous, and how to bring
back fire at the right times ofyear.
Something else that struck me inour class and in curating this
audio story is the way that weforegrounded climate justice,
how climate change exacerbatesinequality and injustice, and
(12:47):
needs to be understood inconnection to structures of
capitalist and colonial powerthat have created it. The way we
paid attention to power in thisclass also encouraged us to pay
close attention to each of ourpositions in relation to these
structures. That's something youcultivated quite intentionally
in our work. Is that right?
Naomi Klein (13:07):
Yeah, I think it'd be difficult for me not to. This
is sort of how I came to reallyengage with the reality of
climate change. I'm somebodywhose work has focused on what
I've called disaster capitalism,and how, in the midst of crisis
and shocks, we often seeinequalities deepen. And climate
(13:32):
disasters are no different. Theyfollow the fault lines of race
and class and gender andphysical and mental disability
and hierarchy that alreadydivide and scar our world. But
at the same time — and this is Ithink, what has kept me in this
struggle, because that's allvery depressing — is that the
(13:57):
flip side of that is I reallydeeply believe that meeting the
enormous challenges of theclimate crisis means an
opportunity to heal some ofthose wounds. In fact, I think
it's the only way that we canrise to the systemic crisis that
we're in — the overlapping andsystemic crises. So we designed
(14:19):
a syllabus that is filled withgreat writing from many
positionalities. Black andIndigenous poets and scholars
like Leanne Simpson and RossGay, essayists like Kyo Maclear
and Julian Aguon. And I am avery firm believer that nothing
inspires good writing like goodreading, and good writers. So my
(14:42):
favorite part of the coursereally was witnessing how these
beautiful writers helped so manyof you access new and different
registers for your own voices. Ithink it was a safe place to
experiment with voice and theresults were incredible.
Judee Burr (15:01):
It was really inspiring. And as we'll hear in
this episode and the next, manyof the excerpts that students
will share today were inspiredby specific pieces of writing,
and they'll mention those in theintroductions to their excerpts.
So in this two-part audio story,we have a gathering of writing
on climate feelings. We askedsome of the students from the
(15:24):
class to record excerpts of thewriting and reflections. These
pieces take us through manykinds of emotions: from grief
and fear of climate change, andits uneven impacts to loving
observance of the beauty andcomplexity of the places and
planet we share. These authorsall have something to say about
what it feels like to build alife here and now as climate
(15:45):
change is happening. This firstepisode is "Climate Feelings,"
which gathers writings andreflections on climate change in
this present moment, includingsome examples of students
thinking about alternative namesfor the so-called Anthropocene.
We called those the "Age of"pieces as alternatives to the
Age of the Anthropocene. Thesecond episode is called
(16:07):
Eulogies. This is a gathering offictional pieces that we wrote
as part of a final assignment.And in that assignment, you
asked us to eulogize somethingthat could be lost to the
climate crisis, and then write afictional forward-looking
account of how that loss wasavoided or mitigated. And this
was an exercise in thinkingabout what we love and could
lose, and then, strategically,how to imagine opportunities to
(16:30):
build a different futuretogether. Naomi, is there
anything else that you'd like toshare with our listeners as they
go on this audio journey withus?
Naomi Klein (16:38):
Just that I'm so happy to have a chance to share
some of this wonderfulness withyou. Teaching this seminar
really was a joy. And the bestpart of the course was how
interdisciplinary it was. So Ireally want to stress this: that
we had graduate students thatcame from zoology who were
studying extinction crises incaribou and bees. We had physics
(17:00):
students doing glacier modelingand geography students like you,
Judee, studying fire andanthropologists studying New Age
conspiracy theories. And we alllearned so much from each other.
Academics often complain aboutgrading. You'll often hear
professors talk about grading aslike the worst time in the
(17:21):
semester. I had the absoluteopposite experience with this
seminar. I loved getting theseessays, particularly the longer
ones that you just justdescribed where different
futures were imagined. And Ioften had this feeling while I
was reading them, that I cannotkeep this to myself, that would
(17:42):
be much too selfish. And theseare too remarkable. More than
once I wept — particularly whilereading these imagined futures.
And I always hope to find a wayto share the work world more
widely. So I'm so grateful toyou, Judee, that you have woven
together this these podcastepisodes, where our listeners
(18:04):
are going to hear somehighlights from our class.
Judee Burr (18:07):
Naomi, thanks for teaching this class and for
talking about it with me.
Naomi Klein (18:12):
Thanks Judee.
Judee Burr (18:18):
This first episode is called “Climate Feelings.” It
includes three parts (18:21):
Part 1 – Connections; Part 2 – Changes;
and Part 3 – Names for a NewAge. In this episode, we will
hear excerpts from the writingsof Ali Tafreshi, Foster
Salpeter, Sara Savino, AnnikaOrd, Ruth Moore, Nina Robertson,
(18:43):
Felix Giroux, Melissa Plisic,and Maggie O’Donnell. We begin
with three pieces of reflectivewriting that center on
connection and care in achanging world. Here is Part 1 —
Connections.
Ali Tafreshi (19:15):
My name is Ali. I'm a PhD student working on
evolutionary theory at theBiodiversity Research Centre at
UBC. This is a reading inspiredby Robin Wall Kimmerer's word
for replacing "it" withrespectful language "kin" or
"ki" that acknowledges theanimacy all around us. The
writing is about two kin that Ioften visit: a pier and a pair
(19:38):
of trees in Jericho.
If you walk to Jericho Beachfrom 4th Street there is a grass
field at the entrance where twowillow trees hung out by
themselves. Always looking wellput together, even at night. My
afternoon breaks were walking inbetween them with my coffee and
back to my house. The pier andthe two trees were broken in the
(20:00):
same storm this winter.
For my birthday this year, thepier was filled with logs and
the concrete slabs of thewalkway that had been ripped
out. Each section of the woodenrailing held memories and
rituals, none of which werethere anymore. I went through
the broken pieces of wood, but Icouldn’t tell apart which piece
held what memory and which pieceI was supposed to do my
(20:23):
hello/goodbye ritual with. I saton top of the backrest of my
usual bench and got comfy withthe concrete leaning on ki. I
drank my tea, breathed in, andaccepted the wind. The wind
accepted me too, which I wasgrateful for. Regardless, it
felt like my birthday at thepier. It’s nice to be there with
(20:43):
friends when things aredifferent and its difficult —
even if you don’t know what todo in that moment. In that way,
it’s just nice to know ourrelationship is real, and after
a couple of laughs and sips oftea, the broken concrete and
logs are just where we are rightnow.
When I first saw the two fallenwillows, and stood still by them
(21:03):
with my coffee, an elderly ladycame and stood close by. We
stood there silently. She walkedcloser and looked at me. She
told me in small sentences thatthis is as sad as it feels, like
she knew I needed validation. Ididn’t say anything, I smiled.
She stood for a little whilemore, then left. The next day,
(21:25):
Jericho was flooded. The pondwith the beavers and ducks had
taken over the whole park. Itlooked magical. I walked with my
coffee to see what was happeningfrom all angles. Near when I was
about to leave, I was taking apicture of a tree that looked
different that day, surroundedby water. When I put my phone
down, an elderly lady wasstanding next to me, wearing a
(21:47):
bright yellow poncho and holdinga rainbow umbrella. She
confirmed how beautiful it is.She then stood there and looked
at the landscape with me. Shetold me she’s been coming to
Jericho for 20 years and hasnever seen it like this. She
said it’s beautiful and theducks seem to love it, but these
changes will destabilize thishabitat. This is climate change,
(22:09):
she said, smiling, while lookingdown. She was sad but she was
there with her park. She then,in her yellow rainboots, walked
into the water that hadovertaken the walkways.
Foster Salpeter (22:39):
This is Foster Salpeter and I'm a graduate
student in political theory,having just completed an MA
thesis on non-sovereignapproaches to food security.
This is a reading from areflection on the connection to
place.
Alexis Bonogofsky, a goatfarmer, an environmentalist from
(22:59):
southeastern Montana provides agenuine account of connection to
place. Talking about deerhunting, Bonogofsky says, “you
just watch these huge herds comethrough, and you know they’ve
been doing that for thousandsand thousands of years. And you
sit there and you feel connectedto that”. Bonogofsky then draws
(23:22):
a relation between “Thatconnection to this place and the
love that people have for it”.As extractive industries tear
through the region, Bonogofskyis convinced that it "...is not
the hatred of the coal companiesor anger, but love that will
save that place."
(23:42):
My rootedness to place passesthrough my canoe. For as long as
I can remember, the perfectcanoe stroke has been described
to me as one that connects withthe water. Often when we do
something or hear somethingrepeatedly, we can lose sense of
its meaning. I think this is whythe significance of this
(24:06):
language here only dawns on menow. Why is it that we describe
a canoe stroke this way? For theamateur canoeist, the intention
of the stroke is often seen asan attempt to pull water
backwards, as a way ofpropelling the boat forwards. In
(24:26):
order to perfect the canoestroke, a reorientation is
required. The intention of thestroke is not to propel water
backwards; rather, the goal isto root the blade of the paddle
as firmly as possible to thewater, and then to pull
yourself, bringing the boat withyou, towards that anchored
(24:48):
point, eventually gliding beyondit. In order to achieve this,
the paddler has to create thestrongest possible connection
between boat, body, arms, hands,paddle, and water. Establishing
this connection has a particularfeeling and sound that practiced
(25:10):
paddlers seek out. For auditoryreference, a coach once
In a given year, I aim to paddlearound 4,500km. At a comfortable
instructed me to listeen for andto recreate a "puck" sound, as I
pace, traveling one kilometertakes about 200 strokes. This
paddled down the lake.
adds up to 900,000 strokes peryear. I see that as 900,000
(25:32):
opportunities per year toconnect with the water.
Sometimes, on a calm day withgood visibility, I can achieve a
unique sensation that I cherishimmensely. After thousands of
consecutive strokes, when apractice becomes quite
(25:55):
meditative, and the movementmostly subconscious, it can
begin to feel as though mypaddle’s point of anchor is
larger than one particular spotin the water. As I fall on the
blade of my paddle, and drawmyself towards it, it is as
(26:20):
though I am being supported bythe body of water in its totality.
I have paddled and trainedeverywhere from pristine lakes,
to brackish lagoons, toindustrial canals, and even the
Harlem River in New York City. Ipromise, this described
(26:43):
sensation remains the same onall of these bodies of water.
They are all kin, and they areall equally deserving of love.
Sara Savino (27:14):
My name is Sara, and I researched the impacts of
deforestation on therelationships between humans and
elephants in India. This is anexcerpt from my reflection on
the lessons I've learned from mygrandfather about hope.
I spent my early summersclimbing my granddad’s fig
trees. They are his pride andjoy, and grow on a small, sunny
plot in the South of Italy. Mygrandfather would wake up at 5
(27:37):
AM most days to sneak in a goodfew hours on the land before it
would get too hot to work. Alifetime of making time for what
he loves and believes in hasmade him strong, joyful and
silly – even at 96, even as mygrandmother’s death has uprooted
him to the North of the country,and even as rising temperatures
scorch his now mostly abandonedland. In Ash Sanders’ “Under the
(27:58):
Weather,” Chris Fosterbeautifully proposes
“ignore-ance” as a word for“returning from a state of
consciousness to a willed stateof not knowing.” I would like a
word for the reverse too — aword for the moment you can no
longer ignore the emotionalweight of climate change, when
you first reach that state ofconsciousness. The moment the
veil is lifted and you letyourself feel it all. Reve-loss?
(28:23):
Covid lifted that veil for me.In the early stages of the
pandemic, it felt like we mightcollectively be reminded that
humans are part of a complex webof reciprocal relationships, and
be forced to reckon with theweight of that responsibility.
When the global consequences ofCovid quickly aligned themselves
according to the usual class,racial, and gender divides, my
mental health plummeted. Beingisolated didn't help, and
(28:46):
worrying about my friends andfamily did not help either.
Ultimately, however, it was therealization that, this too,
would be insufficient for us to“rethink the doomsday machine we
have built for ourselves” - asArundhati Roy beautifully
describes it - that dulled thatburgeoning sense of hope.
I don’t think it is acoincidence that those who
experience deteriorating mentalhealth as a result of climate
(29:08):
change are ignored, belittled orpatronized; that the words to
describe these experiences donot really exist. Depression,
anxiety, rage, fear, grief –they are more than justified
responses to what is happening.They are acts of resistance in a
culture that is trying to tellus we are selfish, uncaring and,
ultimately, alone.
(29:30):
Back to my grandfather. He is aman of few words and would never
proselytize for his belief thatconnection to the land,
reciprocity, getting your handsdirty literally and figuratively
are a balm for the aches thatmost of us are going through
right now. As an illiterateimmigrant who built a life for
his family in what was, at thetime, an especially under-served
(29:51):
part of Western Europe, his lifespeaks to those Randian virtues
of “Reason, Purpose, andSelf-Esteem.” And yet, he is a
passionate proponent of agovernment that fulfills its
social contract with its people,for a society that is built
around abundance, thatincentivizes love and care.
(30:12):
My grandfather is preparing fordeath. He has asked us to plant
a fig tree in our much coldergarden in Belgium. This small
transplant will have to get usedto a new climate, but should it
survive, it will ensure that hisvalues find root somewhere long
after he dies.
I want a word for the radicalhealing that comes from living a
life aligned with your values,as much as much as feasible in a
(30:35):
broken system; from plantingsmall seeds that might not
change everything all at once(what will?), but that might
help tip the scales ever soslightly in favor of a world
different from the one ourneoliberal Gods have designed
for us.
Avant-gardening?
Judee Burr (31:08):
As Naomi described in the introduction, this class
encouraged us to put into wordsthe complex emotions evoked by
climate change – yes, thisincludes sorrow and anxiety, but
also anger, wonder,appreciation, and love for our
changing human andmore-than-human ecological
communities. Now we’ll hearselections from students’
reflections on the emotionallandscapes of life in a changing
(31:31):
world. Here is Part 2 — Changes.
Annika Ord (31:39):
My name is Annika Ord and I'm a master's student
in Geography at the Universityof British Columbia. This is a
reading from my reflection onscientists and feelings in the
climate crisis.
I’m sitting outside in the sunwriting this reflection. It’s
February 7th but it feels like aday in late March or early
(32:00):
April. The sun holds heat, myhands are not cold typing, and
The last few weeks I’ve felt akind of whiplash, or I might
the birds sound as thoughthey’re celebrating, or at least
have a lot to say. Anothermoment of seasonal
disorientation. It feels commonnow, these days superimposed
from another season. Today, Icelebrate the chance to work in
(32:23):
February outdoors, to sit in mythoughts without the cloistering
of walls and distraction ofinternet tabs. Outside, with the
world; it’s my favorite way tobe. But still, this day feels
misplaced in the season; a voicetells me I should feel concern.
(32:47):
call it geographicdisorientation. The return to
screens, city grids, and zoommeetings contrast sharply with
my last month at home in Alaskaplaying in snow, shoveling
overburdened roofs, caring forboats and a dad with a replaced
knee, feeling deeply connectedto the place that is my home.
(33:08):
But it’s more than that. Thissense of disorientation grows as
I read of powerful climateemotions and datasets of loss,
while learning through a screenthat seems to reinforce the
disconnection from the earththat I’ve come here to question.
And it makes me wonder if theways in which we teach and
learn, work, and interact withthe world mediated through a
(33:28):
screen are reinforced by thisgreat divide. The divide that
allows us to emotionally detachand stand by as our only home
and out very existence hangs ina balance that is rapidly
deteriorating.
So here I sit. Outside in a daythat feels unreasonably warm, to
(33:49):
write while being a part of aworld that includes but is so
much bigger than human. Thereadings this week felt familiar
and personal. I appreciated thewords of Genevieve Guenther, to
write from a place that is bothtangible and local, and build
outwards from there. I found theletters from the scientists who
spoke from their own experiencesof climate change from a place
(34:12):
of emotional vulnerability andthrough story to be the most
moving. For some time, I havebeen trying to share in this
way. I am practicing now, and itis comforting to hear the words
of others doing the same. AriaanPurich’s letter gave me pause,
she spoke of terror for theworld her children would inherit
(34:33):
but also the world of today. Itmakes me reflect on a thought
I’ve had before (34:37):
will our own homes need to be the ones that
are burning or flooding beforewe are shaken awake? I hope not.
I’m having a moment, buoyed bythis outdoor writing. I imagine
classrooms and congresses,gatherings of world leaders,
(34:58):
held outdoors. Observing thesongbirds and lichen, making
carbon emission commitmentsbeneath rolling heat waves,
lining up for water deliverieswhen aquifers run dry, hauling
sandbags in relentless rain,learning how to find and pick
fiddleheads in the spring. Iimagine this from a place of
(35:19):
both love and rage. I appreciatethe practical advice of
Genevieve Guenther, “fight thepeople in power,” not the
“disembodied force” of climatechange. I think of the words my
advisor, Michele Koppes, sharedwith me — that we must bring our
whole selves to this work. It isheartening and energizing to
(35:42):
hear from others, like RachelCarson, Kim Cobb, and Joelle
Gergis, who recognize the powerof emotion to move people to
action.
Ruth Moore (36:09):
My name is Ruth Moore. I'm a geophysics master's
student in the Department ofEarth, Ocean and Atmospheric
Sciences at UBC. I research howclimate change is impacting
precipitation, such as rain andsnow in the Canadian Arctic.
It's October 2nd, 2022. myfriend Thankee and I decided to
(36:33):
go on a gravel ride towardsBunsen lake. We spent most of
the summer cycling around theLower Mainland on Vancouver
Island. Everywhere from theSunshine Coast to the Cowichan
Valley. We would bike pack,where we packed up our
belongings and embarked on twoand three night self-propelled
adventures around this beautifulplace that we get to call home.
(36:57):
Worries related to ecologicalbreakdown are easier to manage
when it's just you, a friend, atent, and some bear spray
against the elements. On thisparticular day, we decided to go
out and explore somewhere alittle closer to home in order
to enjoy theuncharacteristically mild autumn
(37:17):
weather we were having beforethe foreshadowed rain closed in.
This was planned to be anoverall mood boosting, head
clearing, adrenaline-rushing endto a week of working indoors.
When I woke up that morning, Ifelt a strange sense of
heaviness in the air and adensity that I had not noticed
(37:37):
before. As we ventured closer toCoquitlam we noticed that the
air was smelling smoky with astrange haze over the water. The
mountains were getting harder tosee. It was a wildfire of a
nondescript human cause, a firewhich would eventually halt our
cycling plans for the day andrequire over 20 firefighters to
(38:00):
tend to a blaze, which at timeswas out of control. Where I'm
from, we do have wildfires, butit's nothing to the extent of
what we get here in BC, andcertainly not in October, which
is meant to be a wet andsaturated month. The air was hot
and heavy and began to close in.With the visibility lowering and
(38:22):
in an attempt to protect ourlungs, we got the skytrain back
to Vancouver where the smoke hadnot yet arrived.
In the readings for this class,we had heard of stories of
people from communities whichwere affected by forest fires,
and specifically the ways inwhich individuals are learning
to cope with the heaviness. Weexplored and discussed how
(38:42):
climate change is affecting ourmental health. The ability to
stay cool and calm is beingdecreased. And individuals
everywhere are becoming moreoverwhelmed with the impending
reality that we all face. Theability to calmly choose to take
the train back to breathable airquality and remove oneself from
(39:03):
the situation is not the casefor those who have experienced
devastating forest fires intheir regions. It is therefore
difficult to reconcile with theconcept of climate anxiety,
since this is not just somethingwhich is happening in the mind.
It is tangible, here for us tofeel, mentally and physically.
Nina Robertson (39:42):
This is "On the Bus," by Nina Sky Robertson.
On the bus, I read the GranthamInstitute’s Report about the
impact of climate change onmental health and emotional
wellbeing. My phone's blue lightpenetrates my eyes, and nausea
almost overcomes me as thevehicle jostles forward. I eat a
piece of raw ginger to soothe mystomach, focusing on the burning
(40:06):
sensation under my tongue.Although I am reading, my
headphones are in. I am tryingto block my sensitive nervous
system from being overwhelmed bythe sheer volume of stimulus on
the bus – all those smells, allthose tiny beautiful moments and
interactions between strangers,all those days and hopes and
worries playing on peoplesfaces.
(40:26):
I am reminded of a vignetteSally Weintrobe uses in her book
"Psychological Roots of theClimate Crisis" to introduce
systems of care. In the scene,tension rises between a disabled
man and a young father on thebus, on a bus just like this. I
wonder what it would look liketo create a system of care that
supported people like me, peoplewho are extremely sensitive, to
(40:50):
ride the bus or adequately dealwith climate change? Although
later I would learn thatsensitivity can result from
trauma, then I understood mysensitivity as a kind of mental
health death sentence, or as thepre-curser to the psychiatric
maladies which haunt me. For aslong as I can remember the
distinction between myself andothers has felt quite thin. In a
(41:13):
world plagued by inequalities,extraction, and abuse, by the
cruelty of capitalism and thepermutations of trauma,
disconnection, dissociation andun-meaning, being hyper-aware is
a difficult state to maintainwithout dipping into periods of
personal suffering, fugue statesof overwhelm.
The Grantham Report andWeintrobe’s book ask, when it
(41:34):
comes to climate change is thatsuffering not rational? But from
my seat, as someone with whatthe report calls “pre-existing
mental illnesses”, I wounder ifmy sensitivity-induced
experience has ever beenun-rational? It’s not a gripe or
criticism, but a statement ofappreciation for a discourse
broaching collectivity. Systemsof care designed to support the
(41:56):
sensitive, ill, or disabled willbe better equipped support us
all. It is a well-known designphenomena called the curb-cut
effect. And so, it is no wonderthat the Institute’s number one
recommendation may be boileddown to take action on climate
change itself in order to dealwith the emerging
climate-related mental healthcrisis.
(42:17):
I cry as we jostle throughRailtown and along Powell. I
feel strangely seen by thelegalistic call to action. I
have often felt gas-lit by thosebetter able to direct their
attention and modulate theiremotional intensity, for my
concerns over climate change,for my worries about how systems
fail people, and how trauma isfolded through generations. This
(42:40):
is the first time I haveencountered a narrative that
describes my experience as arational reaction to a world
gone awry, rather then apersonal or biological
deficiency, and it feels goodand true to be understood as an
organism who lives in relationwith the world.
The driver turns a blind eye towoman who smells of oranges and
(43:00):
gets on the bus through the backdoors, while a man in a thin
coat shouts his thanks andthumps the window next to me.
Felix Giroux (43:27):
My name is Felix Giroux, and this is a reading
from my reflective essay.
On October 28, 2021 – alreadythree years ago – Lord Stern
gave a talk to celebrate 15years since he published his
well-known report, "TheEconomics of Climate Change: The
Stern Review."
In the conference hall, thereweren’t a lot of people as we
(43:49):
were all spaced out two metresapart. I sat in the back,
thinking I was just there tolisten, take notes, and prepare
for COP26, which was a few weeksaway. His talk was full of "new
speak" and “bank speak”,promoting the idea that
innovation, growth, investmentsand global shifts will solve the
problem of GHG emissions. Heended his presentation on the
(44:13):
hope that young people gave him,referring to Fridays for the
Future and other youth activistgroups, mostly from the global
North. At that moment, Icouldn’t understand how he
connected innovation,investment, and youth as the
solutions to the climate crisis.In what world does bank speak
AND rebellion against bank speakmake sense?
(44:36):
One of the first questions camefrom a student, wondering if and
how capitalism was responsibleand how his models accounted for
radical systems change. Hebrushed the answer off, replying
that we didn’t have time tochange the system. I raised my
hand. I asked something alongthe lines of “how dare you use
(44:59):
young climate activists as asolution for the future in your
slides alongside mainstreamcapitalist ideas of investment
and innovation? As young people,our politics are the opposite of
what you’ve just presented!” Atleast, that’s what I was trying
to express. His reply was ashort lecture on Amartya Sen’s
definition of justice, notanswering my question at all.
(45:21):
After his talk, I walked up tohim to ask if he would accept a
meeting at COP26 with youthclimate activists so they could
express their climate politicsand understandings of climate
justice. He refused, statingthat he was too busy at COP
meeting with world leaders.
This was supposed to be aclimate champion, heralded by
(45:43):
mainstream environmentalists andthe UK government for his work
on climate economics. Theclimate crisis doesn’t come from
one single source, GHGemissions; it’s the symptom of
larger problems like capitalismand colonialism. We can't just
put a price on carbon and expectthe market to solve it. I think
(46:03):
back on this moment, and I’mrealizing I should have grieved.
Grieved for the system that Iwish we could have. Grieved for
the change Stern is refusing.Grieved for loss. Loss of words,
loss of understanding, loss ofsolidarity. Our loss.
Judee Burr (46:31):
We’ll end the episode with two readings from
an assignment to re-name what isoften called “the Anthropocene”
— to put our own ideas into thename of this moment of living on
a damaged and unequal planet.Here is Part 3 — Names for a New
(46:56):
Age.
Melissa Plisic (47:05):
Howdy, my name is Melissa Plisic, and I do work
in critical animal studies andqueer ecologies. This is an
excerpt from my poem "The Age ofSanctuary."
Welcome to the Age of Sanctuary.Searching for sanctuary means
you’ve been dealing with someserious shit. Refuge is good,
(47:28):
but short-term, plus I want toavoid the ricochets of
xenophobia that one extra "E"makes. Refugees have human
rights. Sanctuaries havesomething less flimsy.
Sanctuary is sacred, unlikeEden. You are never alone even
(47:52):
if you are the only homo sapienssapiens. It means you breathe
with the community that holdsyou. The Age of Sanctuary is
beyond time — always alreadyhappening, always a possibility.
Exists independent of you,exists within you, if you know
(48:16):
where to look — never the sameway twice. Eluding time, to
catch it is to be profoundlypresent. Sanctuary does not ask
for hope when quieting a franticheart, does not ask you to
pretend to be okay. Sanctuary iswhere you can lick your wounds,
(48:41):
and gather strength for the taskat hand.
This summer I visited Torontofor the first time for The North
American Association forCritical Animal Studies First
Biennial Meeting On Extinction.Three extraordinary days of
preaching to the choir, threeattendees under thirty and
(49:04):
queer. A recipe forinstant-friendship, and a crush
or two. On Saturday morningbefore my flight, I invited them
to Allen Gardens Conservatory, a10-minute walk from the Holiday
Inn Express Toronto Downtown.Let’s look at all these exotic
plants that need constantwatering and pruning and
(49:26):
probably heating had it not beenmid-August. I was skeptical but
ultimately a tourist, and I hadsmoked a joint outside waiting
for my friends while listeningto the cicadas. So at least I
was enjoying it, but alsoresisting the urge to tell my
new comrades that despite thegreenhouse’s illusion of
(49:50):
outdoor-ness, inside voiceswould be more appropriate.
I walked ahead to passively lookfor some peace and quiet, turned
the corner to find a small koipond, all green with dots and
slashes of red, beneath a stonestatue of a nude maiden holding
(50:13):
a pitcher mid-pour, gazing ather duck friend, the duck gazing
back. The koi looked small,compared to those I usually see
outdoors. But these koi, thesewere babies. Some actual babies.
Feeling magic, I was consumed bythe pond for a moment with a
(50:38):
white woman a generation or twoolder than me. Then a Black man
a generation or two older thanme wearing an Allen Gardens
t-shirt, dirty jeans, and workboots came over and started
talking to the fish, himself,the woman, me, nobody, all of
(50:59):
the above. He said that in the17 years of working there,
taking care of this pond, thiswas the first time there had
been baby koi. He told them howhappy he was to see them, how
proud he was of them, how muchhe loved them. He was so taken
(51:24):
by these koi — radiating so muchawe, that my friends who caught
up finally shut up. Then he toldthem he’d be back soon and went
on his day. My friends were moreattuned after that.
Maggie O’Donnell (52:08):
Hi, I'm Maggie O'Donnell. I'm a master's
student in geography, and Istudy urban environmental
politics. This is part of myessay "Age of Tehom."
"When God began to create theheavens and the earth, the earth
was complete chaos, and darknesscovered the face of the deep,
while a wind from God swept overthe face of the waters. Then God
said, 'Let there be light,' andthere was light. And God saw
(52:28):
that the light was good, and Godseparated the light from the
darkness.” (Genesis 1 (52:38):
1-4, NRSV)
Since the second century,Christian theologians have used
the first verses of the Book ofGenesis to advance the doctrine
of creation ex nihilo or“creation from nothing.” On this
basis, the beginning begins withGod, ascribing order and form
where there was chaos andcreating light where it was
formerly dark. The supremacy oforder and lightness was
(53:02):
reinforced in subsequentcenturies, at the expense of the
deep, translated from the Hebrewtehom, and those identified with
the feminine, dark, or mysticalOther.
When I considered how I couldintervene productively in the
ongoing conversations about theAnthropocene, I turned to the
relationship Western society haswith tehom, as both a possible
(53:23):
origin point for chronicling ourcurrent unfolding ecological
crisis, and also as a place tolook to now for a potential
source of a new beginning. Byembracing the tehomic waters of
the primordial moment, alongwith the ways those who embody
its depths continue to resisterasure, we might start to
imagine a collective path towarda different future.
(53:45):
The relegation of tehom to theedges of the creation story —
God creates and there’s nolooking back — sparked a pattern
of violent oppression andmarginalization repeated
throughout Western Europe’spursuit to control the globe. As
Whitney Bauman cogently arguesin his chapter “Creatio ex
Nihilo, and the Erasure ofPresence,” the doctrine of
(54:06):
creation ex nihilo directlyinformed the colonial legal
concept of terra nullius byallowing European colonizers to
justify their suppression andannihilation of indigenous
peoples as part of a largerordained missions to spread
order and eradicate chaos.
These histories all feed, and,as a result, sustain what
(54:28):
theologian Catherine Kellerrefers to as Western
Christianity’s “dominology.”Keller elaborated on this
dominology stating,“Appropriation and annihilation
comprise the twin idols ofdominology, the engines by which
the denigrated chaos (itspeoples, its species) gets
reduced either to raw stuff foruse, or simply to nothing.” From
(54:52):
the exploitation of migrant farmworkers expected to toil in
extreme heat to theproliferation of sacrifice zones
in racialized communities alongLouisiana’s “Cancer Alley” these
engines of dominology continueinto the present, fueling
cultural destruction andecological collapse. For those
with dark, mysterious,disordered, feminine, or
(55:14):
otherwise tehomic qualities,these devices of dominology
compound into a constant,crushing weight.
This is not to say that thosewho have been consigned to the
depths, including varioustehomic human and
more-than-human kin, arepowerless in resisting the
hegemonic structures ofoppression. In fact, the
hard-fought successes won byIndigenous peoples fighting for
(55:36):
land repatriation and youngpeople engaged in intersectional
climate justice protestsdemanding government
accountability illustrate bestthe fissures in settler colonial
dominology.
Our collective relationship totehom will determine how we face
the future. We can turn to thespace colonizers, lab meat
moguls, and carbon creditfinanciers to sweep down and
(56:00):
blow their winds of technocraticclimate solutions over the face
of our unfolding polycrisis. Orwe could dive into the tehom.
Swim in the depths. Lose trackof where our limbs, swirling and
kicking, end and where thewaters begin. We could begin the
story of a new age with one thatis very old, one that humbly
invites you to consider findingthreads of even earlier
(56:22):
cosmologies within its layersand shadows. An origin story
that welcomes an infinity oforigin stories.
Judee Burr (56:40):
We'd like to thank all of the students who
contributed their work to thisepisode, and everyone in the
Ecological Affect class whosethoughtful ideas fostered such
generative discussion andmeaningful writing. Thanks also
to Kendra Jewell, AudreyIrvine-Broque, Lorah Steichen,
and Maggie O’Donnell for theirsupport in reviewing drafts of
this audio story. Finally, we’dlike to thank the University of
(57:02):
British Columbia’s Hampton Grantprogram for funding work on this
project. Now make sure to listento the second and final episode
in this series — "Eulogies"
Thanks for listening.
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