Tag Archives: climate change

Degrowth: End of Society or Vision of the Future?

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Image Source: Kamiel Choi

Degrowth is a bit of a buzzword these days. Some of the press is bad, like the WIRED article titled “Why Degrowth Is the Worst Idea on the Planet.” Some of the press is good. Bestselling books like Slow Down: The Degrowth Manifesto by Kohei Saito and Less is More: How Degrowth Will Save the World by Jason Hickel make that case. And like all hot button ideas these days, degrowth is hotly debated on X.

What is degrowth?

Degrowth, in the most limited sense, questions  ‘growth’ as the goal of economic policy. In modern day politics, economic growth is considered not only to be a net good, but a hallmark of a healthy society. In fact, this is one of the few issues both presidential candidates Harris and Trump can agree on. Trump said this explicitly in the 2024 debate, promising a “bigger, better and stronger” economy and Harris got more specific with her highlight on growing the “clean energy economy”. In a political climate so polarized, growth is good is something most everyone seems to agree on. 

The idea of degrowth has been around since the 1970s, but until now it hasn’t gained much traction in a culture that leads with ‘growth is good’.The French economist André Gorz coined “degrowth” in the 1970s when looking at economic policy specifically. Since then, different people have defined degrowth in different ways.

Public vs personal approaches

The personal politics of degrowth deal largely with individual choices that shift families and communities away from relying on a system of infinite economic growth to a low consumption model of living. Think vegan food influencers and reduce food waste TikToks. 

As concern about climate change comes more into the mainstream, people trying to live with less impact on the environment often adopt terms like degrowth that come from academia, to describe the lifestyle choices that they are promoting. Zero-waste, slow living, communes, intentional communities, anti-consumerism, right-to-repair, ‘live local, think global’ and de-influencing are all social and personal approaches to the degrowth movement. 

The other camp that degrowthers end up in is far closer to Gorz original usage of the term, i.e. the public policy of degrowth. Proponents push for economic and social policies for degrowth, such as moving away from GDP as an indicator of prosperity, and redirecting efforts from sustainable development in the global North to sustainable degrowth. 

In contrast to their vegan, anti-consumer counterparts, policy degrowth advocates usually focus on national and international investment and subsidies systems, over individual consumer choice. Some like Jason Hickel do advocate for a complete overhaul of the global economy, but most take a more moderate approach, asking that governments stop using a booming economy as an indicator of wellbeing, and instead focus on human needs.

Why are people so mad? 

The majority of the people who take to the Internet to complain about degrowth are responding to political degrowth supporters, but are spreading their message using the imagery of personal degrowth advocates. For many contemporary economists, degrowth is a dangerous movement that threatens to crash the economy and spread some quasi-Maxist, socialist, global one world order. 

Pragmatic environmentalists also oppose degrowth because, however valuable it might be, they see the total overhaul of the economy as dead-in-the-water in the current political landscape. Instead, they argue that harnessing the power of economic growth and incentives will save the planet from all its climate change woes.

Feminist opposition to degrowth is lesser known, but also important.  The current ‘washing machine debates’ give a snapshot of how these conversations about individual degrowth are shaped by personal privilege. The washing machine transformed the lives of women starting in the 1950s. They along with other time-saving appliances allowed women to work outside the home, while still fulfilling traditional  roles as wife and mother. There is an implicit belief underlying critiques of personal degrowth that only those who have forgotten the struggles of past generations would choose to give up these technologies that shape the world today.

Another issue that comes up for degrowth, specifically personal degrowth, is how people with disabilities are reliant on systems for medicine and adaptive technology. The vast system of international shipping that fuels the global economy also delivers ingredients for the manufacture of life-saving medication, like insulin. Aspects of consumption like plastic straws and disposable paper towels are a convenience many enjoy, but can play a huge role in a disabled person’s day to day life. Unequivocally, the type of personal degrowth choices that are promoted are at odds with technologies that empower disabled people to have agency in their own lives. 

These two critiques of degrowth get tangled in the current debates, clouding both the meaning of degrowth as a term, and sending these two different communities sailing past each other, fighting a strawman army of their own making. 

Why should people care?

While people on the internet have a lot of thoughts about degrowth, it may seem out of touch with the current struggles and needs of people on the ground. Political degrowth is an abstract idea being debated in even more abstract terms, where thinkers throw around acronyms like GDP and ILO. Even the personal degrowth of pristine, zero waste households plastered over the internet that are used to sell metal straws and reusable coffee cups seem out of touch.  Why should anyone with a job, bills, family to worry about, care about degrowth?

One reason is that, for better and for worse, economic policy shapes the lives of everyone. Conversations around tax rates, development, sustainable or otherwise, inflation reduction, and budgeting all start with an implicit assumption that growth is good; growth will bring more people health, wealth and happiness. 

How do we go forward?

Popular eco-friendly ideas like sustainable development, degrowth, buy-less, and the Green New Deal, are often seen as a panacea to the problem of climate change. This thinking is understandable. Human suffering, particularly at the hands of the natural world, is scary. An uncertain future is scary. And people respond with the hope that if we just find the right solution, the silver bullet, weed out the bad apples, and then we will be okay. 

In focusing on washing machines and other conveniences, we fight amongst ourselves, stuck in a cycle of judging, justifying and defending. The degrowth debates, in their chaos, remind us that it is easy to talk about big ideas on the Internet, it is easy to make sweeping generalizations about how people should live, and it is easy to be distracted by tech bros on X. What it is hard to do is think critically, imagine a better world and fight to create it, present with the now.

As Andre Gorz reminds us, “theory always runs the risk of blinding us to the shifting complexities of the real world. [Instead, we should] live completely at one with the present, mindful above all of the wealth of our shared life”. 

Wisconsin: Is it Still America’s Dairyland?

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I lived in Wisconsin for the first 18 years of my life. Now every time I cross over the Illinois border to return home, I am greeted by the Mars Cheese Castle standing along the interstate. The cheese castle is a monument to Wisconsin’s dairy industry, which has filled the state with pride and revenue for centuries. 

Today, all that the Mars Cheese Castle stands for is at risk. 

Wisconsin began producing milk and cheese from cattle in the mid-late 1800s, but technological advances and globalization have changed the landscape of agriculture (amongst other industries). Many small farms are having to close due to competition with larger farms instate and beyond.

Over the past four decades, Wisconsin has gone from 47,700 to 6,500 dairy farms. This is largely due to issues of economic scale–smaller, especially family-owned, farms cannot meet the size and speed of production that larger farms can meet, and are often having to close or sell to these larger competitors.

The state seems to be producing more bankruptcies than cheese wheels these days. So of the farms that stay open: who is buying them? And who is doing the work that is keeping the industry afloat? 

The economic changes that small farmers face are exacerbated by global climate change. The effects of climate change alter agricultural processes and schedules, presenting farmers with barriers to production. The industry as a whole is also having to face increasing calls from the public to address its role in the greenhouse effect, as research has revealed that cattle farming is the source of a significant amount of greenhouse gas emissions.

Some smaller farms are attempting to survive by dually addressing environmental and economic challenges. Organic farming organizations in Wisconsin provide information to help farmers decrease their greenhouse gas emissions. Some farmers are even seeking out additional modes of income, like installing solar panels to sit alongside grazing cattle.

How are the 6,500 dairy farms remaining in the state staying open? Who owns them, and how do remaining farm owners treat their workers, their animals, and the land they farm on? Over the next several weeks, I will consider if (and if so, how) Wisconsin farmers and workers can have a just and sustainable work environment in the competitive 21st century globalized agricultural economy. Can the Mars Cheese Castle continue to be a true symbol of the state?

Front Lawns: Mowing & Growing the American Landscape, A Brief History of an American Obsession

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Link to original Story Map

The Story Map Text:

From the suburbs of Chicago to the suburbs of New York, our obsession with lawns spans America.

But, why? Why do these spaces carry so much value? How did our obsession begin?

The following events illustrate the story of how lush front lawns— and the devices and practices used to create them— reflect the American Dream of home ownership.

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1700

America owes the physical creation of the lawn to landscape designers in England and France. The first lawns were grassy fields enveloping English and French castles — the logic being that castle grounds free of trees allowed soldiers guarding the castles a clear view of their surroundings. Further into the 1700s, European landscape designers began experimenting with concepts of closely, clean-cut grass areas within gardens. Lawns quickly become an indicator of class. Just like today, those with lawns are those who have the financial means to maintain it.

1757

Language matters. The word “lawn” was introduced to the English dictionary in 1757 as a “large clump of dirt with grass.” The creation of this word gave a name to this phenomenon.

1806

Among the first to replicate the European lawn in America was U.S. President Thomas Jefferson. In front of his Monticello estate, Jefferson had a large front lawn designed, simply for his viewing pleasure.

1830

Englishman Edwin Bear Budding invents the mechanical lawn mower in 1830. The design of the lawn mower sets the foundation for quick, efficient lawn management that we know and “love” today.

1841

The desire for lawns to look like putting greens begins in 1841 when Jackson Downing published the first ever American landscape-gardening book. Downing’s popular book told readers that if they ‘improve’ their cookie cutter front lawns, they would ‘improve’ themselves.

1868

Landscape architect Frederick Law Olmsted, commonly known as the ‘Father of the American Lawn’, accepted the task to design Riverside, a suburb of Chicago. In the design, Olmsted required that each house be set back 30 feet from the road to allow room for one or two trees and a lawn that would connect to the neighbors’ yard.

1871

With the invention of the lawn sprinkler in 1871, homeowners— the elite few who had running water in 1871— no longer had an excuse not to have a lawn.

1935

Missouri mechanic Leonard Goodall crafted the first power rotary mower in 1935. Caring for a lawn became easier and faster than ever.

1938

Passed in 1939, The Fair Labor Standards Act makes the dream of a 40-hour workweek a reality. With newfound weekend time, many Americans filled their Saturday’s with lawn mowing and watering. While it was not explicitly said, the condition of the front lawn reflected your status and value to your community.

1945

The end of World War II prompted the federal government to finance low-cost mortgages, encouraging builders to construct low-middle class housing. Lawns are used in these new housing developments to recreate upper class suburban residences, drawing more residences into the neighborhoods. Before this, front lawns are reserved for the upper class. Intentional efforts by the government denied housing loans to many people of color, excluding them from living in suburban communities.

1950

The development of new forms of pesticides makes a weed-free lawn possible.

1962

The first prominent anti-lawn advocates emerged after the publication of Rachel Carson’s book, Silent Spring, detailing the harmful effects of the pesticides (being used to keep lawns weed free) have on people, wildlife, and the greater environment.

1966

The Masters Golf Tournament is televised in color for the first time, allowing viewers to see the manicured, bright green grass fields displayed on their TVs at home. In a Sports Illustrated issue following the tournament, the author writes, “having seen what is possible, millions of homeowners feel compelled to go and do likewise.”

2005

Turf grasses, grass used for lawns, become the single largest irrigated crop in America. Lawn irrigation uses more water than corn, wheat, and fruit orchards combined.

2009

Americans spend a record $20 billion in 2009 on lawn care.

2016

In the small town of Cahokia, Illinois, authorities arrested a woman for failing to mow her lawn in accordance with strict municipal lawn-care rules. Both before and after this arrest, there have been other mowing-related legal cases, emphasizing the importance of lawns in American culture.

2020

Compared to state park sites in the U.S. occupying 14 million acres of land, lawns now cover 50 million acres of land in the U.S. That’s a lot of grass.

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The legacy of the American front lawn is one we are all familiar with.

Front lawns tell us that with hard work, determination, and sacrifice, anyone can achieve a life of prosperity. Front lawns tell us that we, too can have that perfect, pristine patch of grass.

Front lawns may look perfect, but they obscure a long history of exclusion and environmental damage.

In Pursuit of the Perfect Lawn

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Mow, water, spray, repeat. 

Americans spend up to six hours per week maintaining their lawn: trimming grass, obsessively spraying God-knows-what to keep the grass a bright green, turning on sprinklers at the crack of dawn— But why? What is it about these small patches of grass that fascinates Americans? 

An eco-anthropological dissertation completed at Salve Regina University analyzes this very question, incorporating historical, critical, and socio-cultural perspectives. The study, which focused on one of the wealthiest neighborhoods in Rhode Island, found that American front lawns are sites of both “socially vapid” and “ecological hazardousness” occurrencess. 

To make sense of this, let me introduce you to two houses you would probably recognize. The first house (House A) has a front lawn with long, lumpy, untended brown-ish grass. The other house’s lawn (House B) is the opposite: it is a perfectly manicured, eternally green,weed-free carpet.

Let’s begin with the dissertation’s first  argument: lawns as sites of socially vapid events. That is to say that lawns are spaces where boring, unproductive, and unimportant social interactions happen.

The analysis collected data from 23 front lawns within the town of Barrington, Rhode Island. Among other questions, the study asked participants the following: Do you believe the appearance of your front lawn is a reflection of you? 68% of participants believed it was.

In American suburbs, lawns exist as extensions of the owner, measures of their character, and furthermore, extensions of American values.

The 30 billion dollar lawn industry in the U.S. thrives on the role lawns play in forming   reputations with one’s neighbors, independent of any human interaction— this illustrates lawns as sites of “socially vapid” occurrences. 

This makes sense to me.  Families on my street always treated the residents in House B noticeably better than House A. House B treated their lawn as a prized possession and in turn, they too were treated as such. House A, on the other hand, was often the gossip on the street. People would say, “I can’t believe they let their lawn look like that” or “It’s not that hard to mow your lawn” or “Their lawn makes us all look bad.” 

The goal of the dissertation is to investigate potential for a culturally viable and ecologically beneficial front lawn. Written through an exploration of people’s perception of and relationship with front lawns, the dissertation introduces larger themes important to the American lawn: individualism, control, nationalism, wealth, value, and controlled versions of nature. Understanding these themes are critical in reimagining what our front lawns can look like and how we can interact with them. 

From this perspective, we can see what House A and House B’s lawns share. Neither lawns are sites of play, recreation, community gathering, or lounging. They are, as the study describes, “socially vapid.” This goes hand in hand with the second argument: lawns as sites of ecologically hazardous events.

Unsurprisingly, 80% of the study’s participants reported using a gas lawn mower, a machine already ecologically harmful in its own right. Of the 80%, 62% of participants reported using riding gas lawn mowers, the most polluting of lawn mowers. 

Given the fact that our current system of lawn management and lawn use is ecologically hazardous and socially vapid, reimagining our connection to and affinity for the suburban front lawns is necessary to enact sustainable, effective change. 

So, it turns out that House A is in fact less ecologically hazardous than House B. While House A leaves their lawn alone, House B’s lawn is mowed using a riding gas lawn mower.

This study shows us that the solutions to fixing our lawns can’t be found in a “top five” list. Instead, the study emphasizes that fixing our lawns is really about reimagining much deeper structures rooted in the very fabric of American culture. 

 

Visualizing the Climate Crisis

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Seeing is believing. And nowadays, most people’s window into the real world is through their  screens. 

With the (seemingly endless) Zoom, Google Meet, and Facetime calls that have been a substitute for in person communication during the covid-19 pandemic, people of all ages are becoming more and more comfortable with finding connection and information online. Though there has been an increase in internet use, our reliance on technology is nothing new. Since its creation, the internet has been used as a tool to help individuals stay connected across distances and be informed about friends, strangers, and the world. The addition of visuals offer viewers an exciting window into these faraway places. However, this reliance on online sources of information calls into question how our perceptions of and interactions with the environment around us is impacted by what we see and how it is represented.

Photography is a fantastic communication tool, allowing an exact moment in time to be captured, preserved, and shared. Yet, no matter how realistic, it’s important to remember that photographs can be just as biased as any form of communication or art. 

The framing of visual information has significant implications on how American society views anthropogenic climate change and its impact on the world. How people react to natural disasters, climate refugees, and other issues related to climate justice is colored by their prior perception of the climate crisis. 

All that we know is what we’ve experienced and what we’ve been exposed to. 

Oftentimes, images representing the climate crisis can be overwhelming and scary. Though these visuals are helpful in terms of awareness, they can also lead to feelings of hopelessness and fear, also known as climate anxiety. These emotions can result in a lack of action, particularly when there is little direction given on what steps can be taken by individuals to mitigate climate change.  Evaluating how, what, and why climate visualizations are disseminated online is crucial to understanding how individuals view the climate crisis. A better understanding of what emotions and reactions are evoked by images of climate change will help in bridging the gap between reality and people’s perceptions.

The representation of the environment in media is a broad, multifaceted topic. For my beat this semester, I hope to focus on how climate change is visually portrayed in the news. How does what people see affect how they perceive ongoing events? How much does the method and medium in which we receive information affect our opinion of it? How can we educate individuals on the climate crisis in a way that is meaningful and lasting via a medium (the internet) that promotes shorter attention spans and clickbait?

The American Lawn: A Harmful Invention

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While I sat on my front porch impatiently waiting for my coffee to cool, our nextdoor neighbor turned on his lawnmower. Then, like clockwork, the neighbor across the street also brought out a lawnmower. Soon after, I watched as two men got out of a van labeled “Mike’s Lawns” and began mowing someone else’s lawn. 

But the problem with lawns is far more than just noisy lawnmowers. Subject to a third of all residential water use in the U.S., lawns strike me as impractical, unused spaces that carry no productive value. The non-native grass saturated in herbicides pollutes our air and water. Lawns are bad for the environment; this we know to be true. 

But the problem with lawns runs deeper yet. Even these boxes of seemingly harmless, perfectly manicured, velvet green boxes sitting purposeless in front of homes, carry legacies that cannot be de-historicized nor depoliticized. 

Rooted in colonialism, racism, and classism, lawns serve as status symbols. Like theatre, lawns are meticulously crafted to create a designed, controlled, and safe experience that mimics—in this case—nature, or so we think. The harmful association between grass and healthy, beneficial “nature” ignores all that is wrong with lawns (including sprinklers, lawn mowers, pesticides, etc), especially from an ecological perspective. 

To Andrew Jackson Downing’s 1841 landscape-gardening book, a town over from mine, Hartford, CT, might feel foreign from Downing’s home with a nursery in New York, (which, by the way is a state the same size as all of the lawns in the U.S.) but climate change “carries no passport and knows no borders.” 

The effects of front lawns in America have and will continue to have global impacts that exist beyond your white picket fence. In Hartford, CT, where the white picket fences and manicured lawns of the suburbs give way to unkept public parks and parking lots, signs of climate change are ever-present.  Continue reading →

The tide is high, but can we still hold on?

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View of strom surge flooding in New Orleans after Hurricane Katrina (Paul Morse/The White House)

When Hurricane Zeta made landfall in Louisiana Wednesday this past October, it was the 25th storm for the 2020 Atlantic Hurricane season. 11 of these storms reached the US breaking a 104 year old record. Zeta made landfall as a Category 2 hurricane. While hurricanes fall on a category scale from 1-5, 1 being the least damaging and 5 being the most, Zeta still sustained winds ranging from 96-110 mph, which still has a devastating impact for those in the storm’s path. For coastal communities, a hurricane means strong winds, heavy rains, and flooding, that leads to property damages and even death. Flooding from hurricanes is even more dangerous to communities than winds. 

 What causes floods that put entire communities under water? It’s not just rainfall It turns out storm surges drive coastal flooding from hurricanes. Storm surge is a temporary water level from the interaction between the atmosphere and the ocean which pushes surface waters toward the eye of the storm, and along the path of the storm. As hurricanes, also referred to as cyclones or typhoons, make landfall, they don’t just dump a bunch of rain, they bring seawater too, flooding areas with water levels reaching 20 feet or higher. 

Multiple factors affect the height of storm surges including: whether it is high or low tide, the intensity of the storm, storm size, and physical characteristics of the coastline where the storm makes landfall. In 2005, a 25-28 foot storm surge made Hurricane Katrina one of the deadliest hurricanes in history, Damage from the surge extended miles inland. The storm killed 1200 people and caused $75 billion in damages. 

Storm surges change lives long after the waters have retreated. People face the cost of rebuilding homes and businesses from the ground up in the aftermath of these devastating storms. Families face displacement.Damage to infrastructure can make rebuilding an even bigger challenge. During Hurricane Maria, the storm destroyed infrastructure and supply lines connecting Puerto Rico to the mainland United States, and with a lax relief effort the island is still recovering. 

As climate change intensifies, so will the frequency and severity of hurricanes and the storm surges. Just as storm surges can differ from storm to storm, the impacts of hurricanes and storm surges can differ, both environmentally and socially, throughout the world. In this beat I will look at the impacts and responses to storm surges around the world, which will help prepare for future full storm surges and climate change.            

 

Coastal Resilience and Climate Change: Sustaining Ecological Integrity and Sense of Place

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This past week, Hurricane Florence pummeled the Carolinas, dumping more than 8 trillion gallons of rain on North Carolina. Floodwaters surged, submerging cars and inundating homes. More than a million people were left without power, and forty-three lost their lives.

People survey the damage caused by Hurricane Florence on Front Street in downtown New Bern, N.C., on Friday, Sept. 14, 2018. (AP Photo/Chris Seward)

Our coastlines and the people who populate them face an evermore daunting issue: planning for sea level rise and stronger storms while minimizing the degradation of coastal environments. Climate change is causing sea levels to rise and storms to become larger and more intense, even as more and more people are calling the coast their home. The elevated human pressure on our coastal environment, coupled with the dangers of climate change, create the momentous challenge of making our coastlines more resilient.

A decade of powerful storms like Florence has made clear what’s at stake. In 2004, Hurricane Katrina showed us how poor disaster response and racially motivated urban planning results in catastrophe and loss. Hurricane Sandy pummeled New York City and the Mid-Atlantic seaboard in 2012, with disastrous impacts on infrastructure. More recently, the 2017 hurricane season brought tragedy and destruction to millions along the Texan Gulf Coast, the Virgin Islands, the Florida Keys, and Puerto Rico.

Across the US, coastal communities, municipalities, and cities are scrambling to make their coastlines more resilient. Careful flood plain management can lead to controlled flooding. Resilient building standards mitigate damage. Dissipation of wave energy through built features like levees or natural features like coral reefs is another option.

As these examples suggest, resilience is multifaceted and depends on both the built environment and the integrity of natural features. Resilient coastlines will never be completely immune to the impacts of climate change. But a combination of strategies can reduce negative impacts and allow communities to bounce back from destruction that does occur.

Despite the urgency to make and implement coastal resilience plans, politics and funding pose barriers to progress. In New York City, for example, revising flood maps poses political and economic challenges, as including more area in the flood zone means millions of dollars more spent.

But just as coastal resilience planning is a game of politics and funding, it’s also a matter of life and death, security and loss, and equity and inequality. Every extreme storm has shown us that social and economic factors make some people more vulnerable to extreme weather than others – a form of environmental injustice that could easily be exacerbated by climate change if there isn’t significant action. Fighting climate injustice is key to coastal resilience.

Through my beat, I plan to explore coastal resilience strategies that integrate structural engineering, environmental protection, and climate justice. How are communities, towns, and cities creating innovative and comprehensive resilience plans? What barriers do they face? To what extent is environmental justice incorporated in coastal resilience efforts? In what ways can promoting environmental justice improve resilience? Coastal resilience is as much an engineering problem as it is a justice problem. For millions, their economic security and sense of place and home is at stake.