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This Tribe Will Gladly Accept Clean Energy Funding, Even If Wyoming Won’t

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Wednesday, April 24, 2024

This story was originally published by Inside Climate News and is reproduced here as part of the Climate Desk collaboration. When Wyoming governor Mark Gordon told the Environmental Protection Agency in 2023 that the state would not be applying for federal grant money to reduce pollution and greenhouse gases, he left most communities in the state without access to potentially transformative funds to upgrade infrastructure, reduce pollution, and bring down costs for local governments. But in the nation’s most sparsely populated state, two cities and the Northern Arapaho and Eastern Shoshone tribes could qualify on their own for Climate Pollution Reduction Grants (CPRG) from the $4.6 billion made available to states, cities, tribes and territories under the Inflation Reduction Act to reduce greenhouse gas emissions and air pollution. On April 1, Cheyenne, Wyoming’s capital, submitted its application for more than $99 million to cover most of the cost of building two solar farms and making upgrades to both of its wastewater treatment plants.  Northern Arapaho members host a local powwow on the eve of a solar eclipse in Riverton, Wyoming. Helen H. Richardson/ Getty Images The Northern Arapaho, which is qualified to apply for the $4.6 billion in general funding, met the EPA’s deadline to do so earlier this month. The tribe is also eligible for $300 million in EPA tribal funding, for which it is finalizing an application ahead of a May 1 deadline. The tribe hopes federal money will fund a solar-powered microgrid on its reservation, enable weatherization and energy efficiency upgrades to residents’ homes, and help convert the tribe’s vehicle fleet to electric and hybrid cars. Officials from the Northern Arapaho Tribe and city of Cheyenne called the grant money potentially transformational. “This money would really, truly help big time,” said Dean Goggles, environmental director for the tribe’s natural resources office. Wyoming faces a series of climate change-related threats to its environment, people, plants, and animals. Temperatures in the state have already risen 2.5 degrees Fahrenheit since the onset of the 20th century, according to the National Oceanic and Atmospheric Administration. As temperatures rise, the rate and severity of droughts and wildfires are projected to increase and the severity of storms across the state is expected to rise, too. With “unprecedented warming” expected to continue, “communities in Wyoming will continue to experience higher average temperatures, warmer winters, decreased snowfall, stronger storm precipitation events and increased risk of drought and wildfires,” said an EPA spokesperson. “Everyone is faced with high utility bills. What we’re looking at is something that would be off the grid and generate its own power.” The Northern Arapaho will likely prioritize projects that will increase the tribe’s energy independence and the community’s resilience to severe weather events. Tribal planners began working on the community’s application last fall, and identified the building and transportation sectors as the largest sources of climate-warming emissions the tribe could address. “There’s a lot of interest in solar here,” said Steve Babits, an environmental scientist with the Northern Arapaho Natural Resource Office. “People are pretty interested in being more self-sufficient with the utilities.” In its Priority Climate Action Plan (PCAP), a planning document the Northern Arapaho submitted to the EPA last month in order to qualify for general funding, the tribe laid out plans to apply for funds to build a community‐scale solar farm with battery storage on the Wind River Reservation. Such a project could reduce the tribe’s emissions and “provide affordable, reliable power” to the community, the tribe wrote. As Goggles and Babits met with tribal government groups about the PCAP, they said the idea proved popular. “Everyone is faced with high utility bills,” Babits said. “What we’re looking at is something that would be off the grid and generate its own power.” Weatherizing housing on the reservation is another of the tribe’s top priorities. By constructing high-efficiency buildings using electrical heating systems, putting them close together and retrofitting current buildings with better insulation, the tribe can minimize driving and create homes that “more easily ‘ride out’ power failures during inclement weather by minimizing heat energy losses to the exterior,” it said. This would help solve “major public health issues on the reservation” during Wyoming’s biting winters. The Northern Arapaho also signaled they might seek funds to replace the tribe’s fleet of diesel and gas-powered vehicles with electric and hybrid ones. Babits said funding for any of these plans would help the community create jobs. “The reservation is an underserved community, it could really benefit from that,” he said. About 300 miles to the southeast of the Wind River reservation, Renee Smith had been working diligently on Cheyenne’s PCAP and CPRG. “We’ve been working toward this for a year. We just weren’t anticipating being the lead,” she said, referencing Gordon’s decision to remove the state from funding consideration. Like the Northern Arapaho, Smith sees these funds as an opportunity to expand Cheyenne’s renewable energy portfolio. The city is working with Black Hills Energy, a local utility company, to install solar panels on city-owned cattle grazing lands, the municipality’s closed landfill, and both its wastewater treatment plants. (In Wyoming, cities cannot own and provide their own energy.) Together, these projects could add more than 96,000 megawatts to Cheyenne’s grid annually, helping the city meet its growing energy demand as more data center companies flock to the area, Smith said. Cheyenne’s goal is to win as much grant money as it can from the federal competition, but “it would be great if the state could support this.” Pairing solar panels with cattle grazing, a burgeoning practice known as agrivoltaics, could be particularly transformative for the city. Cheyenne makes money by leasing land for grazing, and leasing that same land for solar development to a utility like Black Hills Energy is a way for the city to do some “double dipping,” Smith said. “Cheyenne would become a national leader” if the city received money for this idea, Smith said. “No project in America would come close to the size and scale of this proposed project.” Reusing the city’s old landfill as a solar farm would help power low-income residents’ homes, Smith said, and the goal would be to one day create a community solar site run by Black Hills. Installing solar panels at its Crow Creek and Dry Creek wastewater treatment plants would allow Cheyenne to power municipal infrastructure with cheaper energy, which would free up tax dollars “to fund quality of life projects” like outdoor and indoor recreation facilities Smith said. “We feel like this is just a once in a lifetime opportunity.” In its CPRG application, the city also included plans to capture and sell methane collected from Dry Creek wastewater treatment plant to local utilities that can burn it as natural gas. Any of these projects would develop employment opportunities in Cheyenne. Solar installation creates jobs “on the front end,” Smith said. As the panels are being set up, Cheyenne would train a workforce to “make sure we have enough qualified people to manage these [panels] and maintain them,” she said. Absent federal funding, Cheyenne would be hard pressed to find ways to get these projects off the ground. Wyoming offers Energy Matching Funds, money from state coffers awarded by the Wyoming Energy Authority to projects that meet an array of energy criteria—most of which are focused on preserving the extraction and use of fossil fuels in a clean energy economy. Cheyenne’s goal is to win as much grant money as it can from the federal competition, but “it would be great if the state could support this. Even in this small way,” Smith said.  States and cities that have applied for CPRG funds will compete based on grant proposal size. It is not yet clear how many other states or cities joined Cheyenne in applying for CPRG funding between $50 million to $99 million, but the EPA plans to award anywhere from six to 12 grants in that range, according to an EPA announcement in January. If both the Northern Arapaho’s applications are deemed suitable for funding, the EPA would award the tribe only one grant. With only two applicants from Wyoming, and Gordon electing to keep the state on the sidelines, grant planners from the Northern Arapaho and Cheyenne said they are aware that the rest of the state may be keeping tabs on how their applications turn out should the two communities receive funding. “Hopefully we can be a leader on this in the state and be a good example for everyone,” Babits said.  “It’s really exciting that we get to apply for these funds—and it’s even more exciting if we can move ahead,” Goggles added. “I’m anxious for it.”

This story was originally published by Inside Climate News and is reproduced here as part of the Climate Desk collaboration. When Wyoming governor Mark Gordon told the Environmental Protection Agency in 2023 that the state would not be applying for federal grant money to reduce pollution and greenhouse gases, he left most communities in the state without access to […]

This story was originally published by Inside Climate News and is reproduced here as part of the Climate Desk collaboration.

When Wyoming governor Mark Gordon told the Environmental Protection Agency in 2023 that the state would not be applying for federal grant money to reduce pollution and greenhouse gases, he left most communities in the state without access to potentially transformative funds to upgrade infrastructure, reduce pollution, and bring down costs for local governments.

But in the nation’s most sparsely populated state, two cities and the Northern Arapaho and Eastern Shoshone tribes could qualify on their own for Climate Pollution Reduction Grants (CPRG) from the $4.6 billion made available to states, cities, tribes and territories under the Inflation Reduction Act to reduce greenhouse gas emissions and air pollution. On April 1, Cheyenne, Wyoming’s capital, submitted its application for more than $99 million to cover most of the cost of building two solar farms and making upgrades to both of its wastewater treatment plants. 

A collection of people walks through an open plain.

Northern Arapaho members host a local powwow on the eve of a solar eclipse in Riverton, Wyoming.

Helen H. Richardson/ Getty Images

The Northern Arapaho, which is qualified to apply for the $4.6 billion in general funding, met the EPA’s deadline to do so earlier this month. The tribe is also eligible for $300 million in EPA tribal funding, for which it is finalizing an application ahead of a May 1 deadline. The tribe hopes federal money will fund a solar-powered microgrid on its reservation, enable weatherization and energy efficiency upgrades to residents’ homes, and help convert the tribe’s vehicle fleet to electric and hybrid cars.

Officials from the Northern Arapaho Tribe and city of Cheyenne called the grant money potentially transformational. “This money would really, truly help big time,” said Dean Goggles, environmental director for the tribe’s natural resources office.

Wyoming faces a series of climate change-related threats to its environment, people, plants, and animals. Temperatures in the state have already risen 2.5 degrees Fahrenheit since the onset of the 20th century, according to the National Oceanic and Atmospheric Administration. As temperatures rise, the rate and severity of droughts and wildfires are projected to increase and the severity of storms across the state is expected to rise, too. With “unprecedented warming” expected to continue, “communities in Wyoming will continue to experience higher average temperatures, warmer winters, decreased snowfall, stronger storm precipitation events and increased risk of drought and wildfires,” said an EPA spokesperson.

The Northern Arapaho will likely prioritize projects that will increase the tribe’s energy independence and the community’s resilience to severe weather events. Tribal planners began working on the community’s application last fall, and identified the building and transportation sectors as the largest sources of climate-warming emissions the tribe could address. “There’s a lot of interest in solar here,” said Steve Babits, an environmental scientist with the Northern Arapaho Natural Resource Office. “People are pretty interested in being more self-sufficient with the utilities.”

In its Priority Climate Action Plan (PCAP), a planning document the Northern Arapaho submitted to the EPA last month in order to qualify for general funding, the tribe laid out plans to apply for funds to build a community‐scale solar farm with battery storage on the Wind River Reservation. Such a project could reduce the tribe’s emissions and “provide affordable, reliable power” to the community, the tribe wrote. As Goggles and Babits met with tribal government groups about the PCAP, they said the idea proved popular. “Everyone is faced with high utility bills,” Babits said. “What we’re looking at is something that would be off the grid and generate its own power.”

Weatherizing housing on the reservation is another of the tribe’s top priorities. By constructing high-efficiency buildings using electrical heating systems, putting them close together and retrofitting current buildings with better insulation, the tribe can minimize driving and create homes that “more easily ‘ride out’ power failures during inclement weather by minimizing heat energy losses to the exterior,” it said. This would help solve “major public health issues on the reservation” during Wyoming’s biting winters.

The Northern Arapaho also signaled they might seek funds to replace the tribe’s fleet of diesel and gas-powered vehicles with electric and hybrid ones. Babits said funding for any of these plans would help the community create jobs. “The reservation is an underserved community, it could really benefit from that,” he said.

About 300 miles to the southeast of the Wind River reservation, Renee Smith had been working diligently on Cheyenne’s PCAP and CPRG. “We’ve been working toward this for a year. We just weren’t anticipating being the lead,” she said, referencing Gordon’s decision to remove the state from funding consideration.

Like the Northern Arapaho, Smith sees these funds as an opportunity to expand Cheyenne’s renewable energy portfolio. The city is working with Black Hills Energy, a local utility company, to install solar panels on city-owned cattle grazing lands, the municipality’s closed landfill, and both its wastewater treatment plants. (In Wyoming, cities cannot own and provide their own energy.) Together, these projects could add more than 96,000 megawatts to Cheyenne’s grid annually, helping the city meet its growing energy demand as more data center companies flock to the area, Smith said.

Pairing solar panels with cattle grazing, a burgeoning practice known as agrivoltaics, could be particularly transformative for the city. Cheyenne makes money by leasing land for grazing, and leasing that same land for solar development to a utility like Black Hills Energy is a way for the city to do some “double dipping,” Smith said.

“Cheyenne would become a national leader” if the city received money for this idea, Smith said. “No project in America would come close to the size and scale of this proposed project.”

Reusing the city’s old landfill as a solar farm would help power low-income residents’ homes, Smith said, and the goal would be to one day create a community solar site run by Black Hills. Installing solar panels at its Crow Creek and Dry Creek wastewater treatment plants would allow Cheyenne to power municipal infrastructure with cheaper energy, which would free up tax dollars “to fund quality of life projects” like outdoor and indoor recreation facilities Smith said. “We feel like this is just a once in a lifetime opportunity.”

In its CPRG application, the city also included plans to capture and sell methane collected from Dry Creek wastewater treatment plant to local utilities that can burn it as natural gas.

Any of these projects would develop employment opportunities in Cheyenne. Solar installation creates jobs “on the front end,” Smith said. As the panels are being set up, Cheyenne would train a workforce to “make sure we have enough qualified people to manage these [panels] and maintain them,” she said.

Absent federal funding, Cheyenne would be hard pressed to find ways to get these projects off the ground. Wyoming offers Energy Matching Funds, money from state coffers awarded by the Wyoming Energy Authority to projects that meet an array of energy criteria—most of which are focused on preserving the extraction and use of fossil fuels in a clean energy economy.

Cheyenne’s goal is to win as much grant money as it can from the federal competition, but “it would be great if the state could support this. Even in this small way,” Smith said. 

States and cities that have applied for CPRG funds will compete based on grant proposal size. It is not yet clear how many other states or cities joined Cheyenne in applying for CPRG funding between $50 million to $99 million, but the EPA plans to award anywhere from six to 12 grants in that range, according to an EPA announcement in January.

If both the Northern Arapaho’s applications are deemed suitable for funding, the EPA would award the tribe only one grant.

With only two applicants from Wyoming, and Gordon electing to keep the state on the sidelines, grant planners from the Northern Arapaho and Cheyenne said they are aware that the rest of the state may be keeping tabs on how their applications turn out should the two communities receive funding. “Hopefully we can be a leader on this in the state and be a good example for everyone,” Babits said. 

“It’s really exciting that we get to apply for these funds—and it’s even more exciting if we can move ahead,” Goggles added. “I’m anxious for it.”

Read the full story here.
Photos courtesy of

Hurricane-Force Winds Bear Down on California, Latest in Stretch of Extreme Weather

California has been hit hard by extreme weather over the past several weeks

LOS ANGELES (AP) — Record-setting flooding over three days dumped more than a foot of rain on parts of northern California, a fire left thousands under evacuation orders and warnings in Los Angeles County, forecasters issued the first-ever tornado warning in San Francisco and rough seas tore down part of a wharf in Santa Cruz.All of this extreme weather has hit California in the past several weeks, showcasing the state’s particular vulnerability to major weather disasters. Strong storms Tuesday produced waves that forecasters said could reach 35 feet (10.7 meters) around Santa Cruz. The National Weather Service issued a high surf warning until early evening, cautioning people to stay out of the ocean and away from piers. For Chandler Price, meteorologist with the National Weather Service in San Diego, these extreme weather events are both typical and unusual for a La Niña winter, a natural climate cycle that can cause extreme weather across the planet. In California, it means a wetter than average northern region and a drier south. “So far we’ve seen that pattern play out pretty well,” he said, but added, “obviously, you know, the tornado in the Bay Area was atypical. ... We haven’t seen that before, at least not for a very long time.”A storm and wind gusts of up to 60 mph (96 kph) prompted the San Francisco tornado warning that extended to neighboring San Mateo County, which went out to about 1 million people earlier this month. The tornado overturned cars and toppled trees and utility poles near a mall in Scotts Valley, about 70 miles (110 kilometers) south of San Francisco, injuring several people. Tornadoes do occur in California, but they rarely hit populated areas.In San Francisco, local meteorologists said straight-line winds, not a tornado, felled trees onto cars and streets and damaged roofs. The storm also dumped significant snow across the northern Sierra Nevada. F. Martin Ralph, director of the Center for Western Weather and Water Extremes, said climate change means that atmospheric rivers, long stretches of wet air that can produce heavy rains, will be responsible for a greater share of California’s yearly precipitation and the periods in between those big events will be drier. These storms are essential for the water supply but can also be dangerous.“When they are too strong and too many in a row, we end up getting floods,” he said, adding that they drive California’s weather extremes.During storms this week around Santa Cruz, one man was trapped under debris and died and another person was pulled into the ocean. The surf also splintered off the end of a Santa Cruz municipal wharf that was under construction, plunging three people into the ocean. One swam to shore and the other two were rescued. A series of atmospheric rivers are expected through the rest of the week. Overall, this pattern is not unusual — these storms regularly produce high winds, heavy snow in the mountains and torrential rain this time of year.“What’s a little unique about this setup is how closely spaced they are, so there’s not much of a break between them,” said David Lawrence, a meteorologist and emergency response specialist with the National Weather Service.But these storms haven’t stretched very far south, creating dry weather in Southern California that increases fire risk.One of the state’s most recent blazes, the Franklin Fire left some 20,000 people under evacuation orders and warnings and forced students at Pepperdine University to shelter in place. The blaze was fueled by the Santa Anas, the notorious seasonal winds that blow dry air from the interior toward the coast, pushing back moist ocean breezes.Most of the destruction occurred in Malibu, a community on the western corner of Los Angeles known for its beautiful bluffs and the Hollywood-famous Zuma Beach. The fire damaged or destroyed 48 structures and is one of nearly 8,000 wildfires that have scorched more than 1 million acres (more than 404,685 hectares) in the Golden State this year. The Santa Ana winds, which peak in December, have also contributed to warmer-than-average temperatures in parts of the southern state, said Price with the National Weather Service. “Eighty-degree (26.7 Celsius) Christmases are not entirely uncommon around here,” he added, but “there was a couple of high temperature record breaks in the mountains, which are usually less affected by the Santa Anas, and so those were a little unusual.” Phillis reported from St. Louis.Associated Press writers Martha Mendoza and Stefanie Dazio contributed to this story.The Associated Press receives support from the Walton Family Foundation for coverage of water and environmental policy. The AP is solely responsible for all content. For all of AP’s environmental coverage, visit https://apnews.com/hub/climate-and-environment.Copyright 2024 The Associated Press. All rights reserved. This material may not be published, broadcast, rewritten or redistributed.Photos You Should See - Sept. 2024

How to teach climate change so 15-year-olds can act

OECD’s Pisa program will measure the ability of students to take action in response to climate anxiety and ‘take their position and role in the global world’More summer essentialsGet our breaking news email, free app or daily news podcast“It’s going to get hot and everything’s going to be on fire and the oceans will rise,” says a year 11 student, Josh Dorian. “That’s just like the worst of the worst. How do you combat that?“Well, you fix it, you stop it from happening, you take preventive measures,” says Josh, who is studying VCE environmental science at Mount Lilydale Mercy College, a high school in Melbourne’s outer east. “Involving kids in that is scary but I think it’s necessary.”Sign up for Guardian Australia’s breaking news email Continue reading...

“It’s going to get hot and everything’s going to be on fire and the oceans will rise,” says a year 11 student, Josh Dorian. “That’s just like the worst of the worst. How do you combat that?“Well, you fix it, you stop it from happening, you take preventive measures,” says Josh, who is studying VCE environmental science at Mount Lilydale Mercy College, a high school in Melbourne’s outer east. “Involving kids in that is scary but I think it’s necessary.”In 2025, for the first time in nearly a decade, science will be the major focus of the OECD’s program for international student assessment (Pisa) – which runs every three years (give or take Covid interruptions), its focus rotating between reading, maths and science.This year it will measure the knowledge and ability of 15-year-old students from 92 countries and economies to act on climate change, under a new heading: Agency in the Anthropocene.Andreas Schleicher, the OECD’s director of education, describes the refreshed science framework as a “small revolution” addressing students’ capacity to distinguish scientific evidence from misinformation in the context of the “biggest challenge of our times – our environment”.“This is not about a few people who are going to be engineers or scientists in their later lives,” he says. “This is the foundation we want to create for every student.”Dr Goran Lazendic, who works with the Australian Council for Educational Research, is the international survey director responsible for delivering Pisa this year. He says the survey has never solely been about curriculum or content knowledge.“The purpose of Pisa is to understand how young people are prepared to take their position and role in the global world,” he says.That’s why the survey focuses on students approaching the end of their formal education and preparing to take part in further education or work.Giving young people choiceAgency in the Anthropocene tests students’ ability to understand and explain human interactions with Earth systems, Lazendic says, to make informed decisions based on the evaluation of different sources and to demonstrate respect for diverse perspectives as well as hope in seeking solutions.In responding to targeted questions, they will also have to show agency – an understanding of how individual and collective choices can make a difference.Dr Peta White, an associate professor at Deakin University who led the design of Agency in the Anthropocene, says climate change education recognises the Earth’s systems are being changed through human interaction.White, a former teacher, has decades of experience researching environmental science and climate change education.Many young people understand the problems, she says, but don’t know what to do about them.“We don’t teach an understanding by looking at what the most fearful climate impact is,” she says. “What’s important is to allow young people to appreciate the context that we’re in and be able to move forward.”When young people have agency, they can make informed decisions taking into account the complexity of Earth’s systems, diverse sources of knowledge and different perspectives, White says.It’s about understanding their role in the ecosystem. “Not as a pinnacle up the top, but as a player in a whole range of other players in an ecosystem. They’re part of a system, which means they have to act responsibly in the system.”skip past newsletter promotionSign up to Five Great ReadsEach week our editors select five of the most interesting, entertaining and thoughtful reads published by Guardian Australia and our international colleagues. Sign up to receive it in your inbox every Saturday morningPrivacy Notice: Newsletters may contain info about charities, online ads, and content funded by outside parties. For more information see our Privacy Policy. We use Google reCaptcha to protect our website and the Google Privacy Policy and Terms of Service apply.after newsletter promotionThis world is going to be ours in 20, 30 yearsAt Mount Lilydale Mercy College, students tackle environmental issues and sustainability across a variety of subjects by working on real examples. The approach has been recognised for fostering responsible, community-oriented citizens.For one project, Josh’s class investigated the effects of logging on the habitat of the endangered leadbeater’s possum, in nearby Toolangi state forest.“We went out in the forest, we saw first-hand,” he says. The students learned that leadbeater’s possums rely on old-growth trees with hollows, and observed how few there were in the forest.Other students constructed nesting boxes to help make up for the lack of hollow-bearing trees.‘Too big to even think about’In Australia, climate change in education has often been caught up in politics. In 2019 the then prime minister, Scott Morrison, said it was a source of “needless anxiety” for children, and it was barely mentioned in the curriculum. Coverage has increased since 2022.Amelia Pearson, at the Monash climate change communication research hub, says there have been more “climate change dot points” added to the curriculum, but mainly in subjects such as science and geography.“Climate change impacts every area of society and our lives,” she says. “So it’s really important that people who might not engage, particularly with [science, technology, engineering, maths], still have the opportunity to learn about these different challenges.”Education isn’t about persuading children to think a certain way, she says, but providing a non-political space to understand the issues and make up their own minds.Pearson manages Climate Classrooms, an initiative that brings teachers together with climate scientists and energy experts to design lesson plans and activities. The approach provides teachers with the opportunity to ask questions about complex – and sometimes contentious – concepts such as renewable energy, nuclear power, carbon offsets and net zero – “big ideas and terms that aren’t always distilled or made accessible”.Australia is a relative latecomer when it comes to embedding climate change in education, says Russell Tytler, a professor at Deakin University.Tytler, who specialises in science education and was involved in designing the Pisa science framework, says Pisa is highly influential in education policies around the world.When the results from Pisa 2025 are in, every country will be scored on young people’s understanding of climate change and their role in seeking solutions, he says. There are already signs that some countries are looking to reflect the approach in their education systems.White, with other educators and researchers, is calling for an Australian climate change education strategy to incorporate learning across all subjects and levels.“Climate change is often too big to even think about,” White says.It requires complex understanding and there are big emotions involved. What works in education, she says, is breaking things down and focusing on what people can do individually and collectively in a local context.“This world is going to be ours in 20, 30 years,” Josh says. “So our awareness of the issue, and our fears need to be acknowledged.”It can be confronting for young people whose futures aren’t looking so lucky, he says.“Education is one of the first steps you can take towards fixing the issue.”

Spending Christmas With “Dr. Doom”

This story was originally published by Grist and is reproduced here as part of the Climate Desk collaboration. I was 11 years old the year my older stepsister brought her high school boyfriend home for the first time. It was Thanksgiving 2006, and his Southern manners fit right in as we bantered between mouthfuls of cornbread stuffing, fried okra, […]

This story was originally published by Grist and is reproduced here as part of the Climate Desk collaboration. I was 11 years old the year my older stepsister brought her high school boyfriend home for the first time. It was Thanksgiving 2006, and his Southern manners fit right in as we bantered between mouthfuls of cornbread stuffing, fried okra, and marshmallow-topped sweet potato casserole. Then, in the overstuffed lull before the desserts were served, my dad plunked his laptop in the center of the table. He opened it up and began clicking through a PowerPoint presentation chock full of data on ice sheet melt and global atmospheric carbon dioxide concentration.  My stepsister’s eyes grew wide with embarrassment. In an effort to welcome her sweetheart to the family, my dad had rolled out his version of a red carpet: one of his many family lectures on the horrors of climate change.  This wasn’t the first—or last—time my dad’s climate obsession took center stage at our family gatherings. On that particular occasion, he was doling out factoids about Arctic amplification—the prevalence of which was then a debate among climate scientists. It was just a warm-up to a typical holiday season spent quibbling over the ethics of farmed Christmas trees and openly scoffing at scientific inaccuracies during a movie theater showing of Happy Feet, the year’s seasonal offering about a dancing penguin named Mumble. A month later, on Christmas Eve, he forwarded me an email about how Santa Claus’ body would disintegrate if he were to travel through the atmosphere at the speeds necessary to meet his seasonal duties, adding a personal note: “Not to mention the emissions!” Over the years, these tendencies earned him the family nickname “Dr. Doom”—a nod to his university professor title and compulsive need to share terrifying facts about our warming world. My dad hammed it up, interrupting his own lamentations by hooting out, “We’re all gonna die!” in a cartoonish falsetto. More than anything, it was a term of endearment. After all, we knew other households that spent their holidays arguing over whether climate change was even real. Many of us know a Dr. Doom in our lives, or at the very least, a pessimist with a particular fixation. We each have our own ways of responding to it, such as my brother’s pragmatism, my stepmom’s knee-jerk optimism, my stepsister’s exasperation. Or, perhaps you are the doomer yourself.  I’m usually tempted to respond with, “I see hope in the next generation.” But doomerism—a label often used to describe climate defeatists—doesn’t typically leave room to talk about a better future. It’s a contagious kind of despair, often too credible to dismiss. Nowadays, my brother and I both work in climate-related fields, undeniably thanks to Dr. Doom’s influence. But growing up, it only took a few days of dad’s soapboxing before I’d tune out of anything climate-related until the New Year. This Christmas, as we once again prepare to pass around the cranberry sauce and discuss the end of the world, I can’t help but wonder how my dad became Dr. Doom. And in a world of rising doomerism, what influence do such tidings have on others? My dad’s journey to becoming “Dr. Doom” started with his formal training as a tropical ecologist. Until the early 2000s, his work meant trudging through rainforests, studying photosynthesis while battling mosquitoes. Then, the wear of human activity on his surroundings became too much to bear. He switched gears and has since spent his career leap-frogging between climate education jobs—from director of an environmental science program at the University of Idaho to president of a small school in Maine, which, in 2012, he led to become the first college to divest fully from fossil fuels. Those entrenched in science, like my dad, seem to be especially susceptible to climate despair. That’s according to experts like Rebecca Weston, the co-executive director of the Climate Psychology Alliance of North America, a community of mental health professionals trained to address the emotional and psychological challenges emerging in our warming world. Many in scientific fields, Weston says, are first to document and review the data behind irreversible loss. The facts of the crisis are so dire that despair seems to be a hazard for many—scientists or not. After all, a study by researchers at the Yale Program on Climate Change Communication found that some 7 percent of US adults report potentially serious levels of psychological distress about climate change. Gale Sinatra, a professor of psychology at the University of Southern California’s Rossier School of Education who studies how people learn about climate change, put it more simply: “Your dad’s problem is that he knows too much.” The issue only gets worse when the climate-informed try to share what they know. In a short-lived position in 2007 as science advisor to the Florida state government (back when then-Governor Charlie Crist would actually acknowledge “climate change”) my dad was silenced during a presentation to the legislature. A report later said that the “awkward” situation arose when a Republican senator took issue with a discussion topic that “had not yet been accepted as fact.” According to my dad, the controversy stemmed from his decision to share the famous “hockey stick” graph, a data visual that shows that global average temperatures began spiking after human societies industrialized.   “We’re starting to understand it as moral injury,” said Kristan Childs, co-chair of a committee to support climate scientists with the Climate Psychology Alliance, referring to a psychological phenomenon that happens when people witness actions that violate their beliefs or damage their conscience. “They’ve been informing people for so long, and there’s just such a betrayal because people are not believing them, or are not doing enough to act on it.” Like many, my dad’s response to this was to get louder—and darker. There’s conflicting research on how different kinds of messaging can affect people’s behavior. Some studies show that those experiencing distress are also more active, while others say that emphasizing worst-case scenarios, like so-called climate “tipping points,” is an ineffective strategy that can overwhelm and de-motivate audiences instead. It can also backfire on a personal level: Listeners of the podcast “This American Life” may be familiar with a story about a climate activist dad whose zeal led to his children cutting him out of their lives.  As a journalist on the climate beat, I’ve interviewed dozens of self-described “doomers,” and yet I’ve found the term is a bit of a misnomer. While many fixate on the worst possible climate scenarios, they’re generally not quitters. As Childs put it, “I don’t know anyone who’s just given up on it all.” Instead, nearly all have dedicated their lives to addressing climate change. And they can’t help but evangelize, warning everybody within earshot of the ways the coming century could change their lives.  Throughout these interviews, I’m tacitly looking for any insight that might help my own Dr. Doom. (Recently, I accompanied my dad to a physical therapy appointment where, upon seeing a disposable blood pressure cuff, he attempted to regale his doctor with facts about the greenhouse gas emissions associated with the US health care system.) Childs might just have some. She offers a 10-step program for professionals who work in science-oriented fields, affiliated with a larger collection of support groups offered by the Good Grief Network, a nonprofit organization dedicated to processing emotions on climate change.  “The group work is powerful because it really, really helps dissolve the sense of isolation,” Childs said. As she spoke, I shifted uncomfortably, wondering how many times my teenage tendency to tune out or respond flippantly made my dad feel I was invalidating his concerns. The best place to start is often the hardest: acknowledging how bad the problem is. “It’s actually helpful to give people a place to share their biggest fears,” she said, adding that the typical workplace culture in scientific fields discourages expressing emotions. “Somehow some acceptance of how bad it is, and the fact that we can then still stay engaged, shifts the question to who we can be in these times.”   Weston agrees that entirely erasing climate anxiety isn’t realistic, especially as the effects of Earth’s changing atmosphere become more apparent and frightening. Instead, her group suggests reframing ideas of what having a meaningful impact looks like. “It depends on breaking through a kind of individualist understanding of achievement. It’s about facing something that will be resolved past our own lifetimes,” she said. My dad has spent his career chasing that elusive sense of fulfillment—never quite satisfied with the work he’s doing. But lately, he’s found a reason to stay put. In 2019, he returned to my hometown to teach climate change to undergraduates at the University of Florida. Now and again, I’ve wondered how these 18- to 22-year-olds, many of whom grew up in the increasingly red state, respond to his doomsaying. This year, while home around Thanksgiving, I sat in on his last lecture of the semester—a doozy on how economic systems can destroy natural resources. His students seemed completely at ease—chatting with him at the beginning of class, easily participating when he asked questions. I was already surprised. “He’s just sharing the facts,” one of his students told me, when I asked a group of them about his teaching style after the class.  Another quickly interjected: “He’s too dogmatic. It’s super depressing, it’s super doom.” Others nodded.  A third chimed in: “It helps me feel motivated.”  Later that week, while I was reporting a different story at a local climate event, both his former students and local activists flagged me down to say how much they appreciated my dad’s courses and op-eds in local newspapers.  “We need all sorts of climate communication. People are responsive to different messages,” said Ayana Elizabeth Johnson, the markedly anti-doomer author of What If We Get It Right?, a recent book that puts possibility at the center of climate action. In 2019, a Yale study on how people respond to different messaging tactics underscored this point—finding that “hope is not always good, and doubt is not always bad.” For Johnson, getting through the climate crisis starts with who you surround yourself with. “This is not solitary work. Individual changemakers are not really a thing,” she said. “We never know the ripples that we’re going to have.” The Christmas stockings on the mantle at my dad’s house haven’t changed in years, but the dinner conversations have. Now, instead of trying to brush aside Dr. Doom’s digressions, we lean in. Our evenings are spent butting heads over the recent climate optimism book, Not the End of the World, by data scientist Hannah Ritchie; swapping notes on heat pumps; and debating how to make the most of used-EV tax credits. My baby nephew, Auggie, of the latest generation to be saddled with our hopes and fears, brightens the room with his cooing at all manner of round fruits and toy trucks.  Between sips from warm mugs, my dad leans back in his chair and frowns at some news on his phone’s screen. “The wheels are really coming off the wagon, kids. Humanity faces an existential threat,” he says, to no one in particular. From the next room, my stepmom calls, “The sky’s been falling since I met you, Stephen.” It’s hard not to smile. Who knows how many people my dad has influenced, or if he will ever feel satisfied with his mission. But as his doomy, gloomy self, he’s built a community and family that share his values. At that moment, I find myself thinking of something Childs told me: “You cannot protect your kids from climate change. But you can protect them from being alone with climate change.”  In our changing world, these conversations feel like something to be thankful for. 

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