https://www.theguardian.com/environment/2019/aug/07/climate-change-us-south-what-i-learned-writing-about-for-a-year
[links in online article]
What I learned writing about climate change and the US south for a year
Megan Mayhew Bergman
Wed 7 Aug 2019
I crisscrossed a region – my own – that is mired in a culture of denial
and delay. The conversation on the climate crisis has not changed fast
enough
It’s 96 degrees in downtown Beaufort, North Carolina, a place where I
spent much of my childhood. The sidewalk is too hot for dogs to walk on.
The iconic wild horses, visible on Shackleford Banks, wade in the marsh,
munching cordgrass. I’ve been watching the horses since I was in
elementary school, and now I’m sharing them with my elementary
school-aged daughters on summer vacation.
My girls love them, as I did. The legend is that the horses swam to
safety from an old Spanish shipwreck. It’s moving to watch the small,
strong horses grazing on the dunes. For now, they’ve survived the latest
big hurricane, and they’re free.
The 100 or so wild horses have one square kilometer of high ground on
which to weather hurricanes and sea level rise, and a shortage of fresh
water endangered by encroaching salt water and storm surge. Some
scientists recommend that the Shackleford horses be relocated, although
they have been there for centuries.
The story is a familiar one that will be told in a thousand different
ways as the atmosphere warms in the years to come: we must think
creatively and quickly to save the things we love.
I wrote my Climate Changed column between hurricane seasons, in the wake
of Hurricane Florence and before the start of Hurricane Barry. I close
the column from Beaufort, a place where Florence brought a record storm
surge; it caused $17bn in damage to the state. As my daughters and I
drive over the bridge into Morehead City, I see bulldozers still
clearing the last of the Channel Marker restaurant, a fixture of
Atlantic Beach flooded during Florence.
I thought that Hurricane Florence might serve as a turning point in the
conversation about the realities of climate change in a region still
mired in a culture of denial and delay. After a year of research and
reporting, I am not convinced that the conversation has changed fast
enough, if much at all. Here in Beaufort, like Miami and Charleston, I
encounter deniers, continued waterfront development, hurricane damage
and blistering temperatures.
If there is any part of the south where technology, tax dollars and
public opinion are aligning to make changes, it’s Miami, even though new
waterfront real estate is still being built. But for the most part,
climate change discussions continue to fall along party lines in a
divided nation. To many rural southerners, the bigger, well-funded
environmental movements seem to be rooted in California and New England.
The conversations appear to be taking place in the echo chamber of
privileged believers.
I saw more of the south while reporting for this column than I ever saw
in my 30 years of living there. My travel reinforced what I already
knew: there is no one south. In 2019 it is multitudinous, diverse and
still reckoning with its plantation economy and cruel social history. It
has PhDs, evangelicals, Trump enthusiasts, environmentalists, artists
and activists. It’s this very tension that has often made the south the
genesis of social movements; one hopes it might happen again, and soon.
Social and environmental racism, income inequality and poverty are as
present as they have ever been, and are only weaponized by climate
change, as I reported from Virginia and Natchez, Mississippi.
I found that in places like eastern North Carolina, the river parishes
of Louisiana, Miami, and Mississippi’s Gulf coast, chronic exposure to
natural disasters has resulted in psychological resilience, and created
a desire in some to “go down with the ship”. In places like New Orleans,
trauma strengthens the sense of community. As Tropical Storm Barry moved
in to New Orleans, I emailed with former interviewees who shared
forecasts and concerns. “I’m gritting my teeth,” one wrote. “But I’m not
evacuating.” Home is sometimes more an emotional than a rational commitment.
In eastern North Carolina, where I grew up and write from, climate
change was never a polite topic of conversation. I was told the same in
a coffee shop in Mississippi, and by a minister in Georgia. Too many
southerners are still dancing around the reality of climate change, and
the cost of avoiding the conversation is going to be steep.
What does a better and more inclusive conversation look like?
Non-traditional environmentalists can be critical allies in addressing
the culture of climate change denial below the Mason-Dixon Line, like
hunters in Arkansas and evangelical Christians in places like St Simons,
Georgia. But too often, the perspectives and interests of frontline
communities are ignored, further exacerbating the environmental racism
so pervasive in the south.
When it comes to climate change preparedness in this region, part of the
continued challenge is that the power structures of the old south remain
in place. A Pew survey indicated that white evangelical protestants are
the least likely to profess a belief in climate change. Power companies,
developers and conservative politicians have a vested interest in
deregulation and maintaining the environmental status quo, and many
paint environmental concerns as nothing but liberal pagan ideas.
When I began this column, I felt more of a duty to listen to all sides,
but frankly I do not believe that climate change is an issue of which
one can pretend, or afford, to hear both sides. I believe that to deny
climate change and delay productive action in 2019 is malicious and akin
to governmental malpractice. A government that is not actively
protecting its citizens from the future challenges of climate change
(property loss, food system collapse, increased intensity of storms,
flooded infrastructure, extreme heat, economic disruption) is not acting
in the interests of its citizens. A politician who delays climate action
is not acting in his or her constituents’ best interests, and may be
going so far as to actually cause harm.
We do not need to hear another word from deniers, or cater to their
anti-science position. Something the progressive south has always
struggled to do: take the megaphone away from the people who want to
live in the past.
Now that I’ve seen more of the south, I can’t help but feel losses and
concerns in a specific way. As I began to write this final column, a
fire raged through the Everglades, which I had driven through just
months before. Storms threatened to challenge the already saturated
Mississippi and its river control structures. I thought about the gators
in the marsh, the last wild panthers darting to safety in the
Everglades, the bartender who was kind to me in an ancient pub on
Natchez-under-the-hill. The loss of life and landscape in climate change
scenarios has always troubled me, but now it is real and urgent in a way
it has never been before.
When the wild horses of Shackleford Banks weather storms, the dominant
male gathers his harem on high ground or in the deep parts of the
maritime forest, and they turn their backs to the wind and rain. A
researcher observed that while wild herds are typically divided into
harems, the divisions break down in extreme weather. “The horses gave up
their internal political dynamics,” he said, “staying together on the
relatively highest ground of that site.” That is how they survive.
To navigate the decades ahead, and save the places we love and call
home, southerners will need to dismantle old political dynamics and
build new, inclusive alliances.
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