Generation Hope

This day marks the one year anniversary of 2019’s Global Climate Strike. The following essay is a work of creative non-fiction reflecting on my own experience of the day, and therefore includes some elements of representative scene and imagined details to fill gaps in memory.

The date is September 20th, 2019, and Our House is on Fire. At least, that’s what the banner hung at my feet says. I’m standing on stage, looking out at a sea of expectant faces, many of whom are familiar to me, and many more who aren’t. They are here because of me, I think. No, they are here because of us. Later, someone will tell me they numbered around four hundred.

“Not bad for a town of 8,000,” I’ll say. “At least as big as Women’s March.”

“Yeah, honestly I thought it was gonna be like fifty people,” they’ll say. I expected this many, but I hold my tongue, not wanting to sound full of myself. We’ve done an impeccable job organizing this event, and if a global strike for action on the existential threat of the climate crisis doesn’t mobilize people, I’m honestly not sure what would. Besides, the vast majority of them will go home rejuvenated and hopeful, waking up the next day to go back to their daily lives.

It’s a gray day, but not quite raining. The moisture rests warm and heavy around us as the crowd settles. My body is almost shaking and I’m lightheaded with the adrenaline that’s kept me on my feet for the past 48 hours of organizing. My stomach leaps into my throat as I turn on the microphone, but I feel no fear. I relax as I begin to speak, thanking the people that made today possible. I scan the crowd to meet some of their eyes. Presley. Stella. Ted. Amy. Even as I begin to speak words of crisis, I let anger and cynicism slide away for a moment and bring my focus to the people here today, my people, who have taught me how and why to stand on this stage.

Today, Greta Thunberg stands on a stage in New York. Vic Barret, Jamie Margolin, and Xiuhtezcatl Martinez are with her. Today, millions around the world flood city streets in protest, crying out against injustice and envisioning a better world. But tomorrow, people will move on and believe they’ve played their role. As I look around at the crowd, I wonder how many of them feel as if their responsibility is lifted now that us “inspiring” youth have taken up the torch. I yield the stage to some of those youth tonight, and watch with bittersweet awe as young folks spill unfiltered truth before this crowd of well meaning adults.

“They say to dream big, and that we have our whole lives ahead of us, but those are just phrases. Those aren’t promises, and if they were, well then they are being broken. All of them, right now, and there is no one who is protecting those promises. Who’s willing to stand up for the Earth, and for our futures, except for ourselves?” says Destinei. She’s a high school junior this year, and beside our weekly climate strikes this is the first protest she’s been to. She’s a little nervous at first, reading off her phone, one hand in the pocket of her red hoodie, the microphone just far enough from her lips that the audience leans in to listen. Later, strangers will come up to her and tell her that she did a good job. I hope it will bring her inspiration, or strength, or confidence. I hope this is one of many audiences who will listen rapt to what she has to say.

A week from this day I’ll speak before a smaller group, a meeting of a dozen or so of faces from the strike, all wanting to continue the work of climate justice locally, to fight for the long haul, not just a day. We’ll be cramped around a long table in the basement conference room of the library. There’s pizza and iced tea and more ideas than we have time or energy to work on. I think about a quote by AOC: “Hope is something that you create with your actions.” I will feel hopeful.

I stay in the park long after our speeches are done, a smile plastered permanently onto my face as I shake hands and give hugs. An older man with a wild beard and a flannel shirt is among them. “Great job out today,” he says. His hand is firm and calloused. “Your generation makes me so hopeful. Our generation really messed stuff up for you.” I force a laugh. He continues. “You know when I was protesting back in the 60s…” I smile and nod as he tells me about this unrelated experience that seemingly must exempt him from the sins of “his generation.” It’s a conversation I’ve had countless times.

“Thanks so much for coming out tonight,” I tell him. “Remember, action meeting same time next week!” I don’t remember whether or not he came.

After the crowd disperses I have a chance to hug my best friends, sit with them on the edge of the stage, and watch dusk settle over the bay with a damp chill. I go home that night and for this brief, magical window of time I feel restful, my work done. I’ve had an exchange student from Spain staying with me for the past ten days (she left this morning), and so this is also the first time in a while I’ve had a night alone in my room.

The next morning I’ll wake up to a full email inbox and to-do list. World leaders will still follow power and money over science, and corporations will still pump out carbon with reckless greed. But for now, still wearing my skinny jeans and eyeliner, I collapse like a rag doll onto my bed and allow the stress to drain away. My sheets are unimaginably soft and the glow of the bedside lamp is cozy as the rain begins to fall. Before sleeping, I can’t help but scroll through every photo from the strike, smiling as I pick out the faces I recognize and tag them in the obligatory Instagram post. My window is open a crack so it can hear the gentle patter of raindrops and smell the wet pavement. Tomorrow it might storm, but tonight there is peace.