The sky was new. It was a thick, uniform, misty grey, but I was told there were no clouds up there. I’d never seen this before, and was skeptical. How could this be? It was the humidity, I was told. It got like that around here on hot summer days.
The year was 1970; I was 17, part of a high school exchange program that had taken me and a fair number of my friends to the Trenton-Belleviille area of southern Ontario. We’d been squired about in buses for days, shuffling through various museums and historical sights, sometimes bored, sometimes behaving badly (my buddy Ken, blowing a spliff in the washroom cubicle at the back of the bus, would surely be considered bad form), sometimes, not often, left to our own devices. On this day we’d been driven to the sandy shores of Lake Ontario, where what was shockingly, appallingly new, much newer than the leaden sky, was out there in the shallow water.
Small signs were attached to stakes standing in the water, just offshore. They read, “Fish for Fun.”
I couldn’t believe it. How could this be allowed to happen? How could people put up with this? As a kid from a small town in northern Alberta, I’d never seen anything like it.
It was a kind of accelerated future shock, as if I had been suddenly propelled forward in time to a new, meta-industrialized world where this was the accepted reality. In this cowardly new world, lakes would be so polluted that eating fish caught in them was unsafe (at 17, I’d caught my share of fish, and always eaten them), and this was how people dealt with the problem. With a lame attempt at cheery acquiescence.
When I think about it, my 17-year-old self would have had a great deal of trouble believing numerous of the realities that we live with today. Setting aside all the literally incredible changes wrought by the digital revolution—where we walk around with tiny computers in our hand, able to instantly send and/or receive information from anywhere in the world—here are a few more mundane examples of contemporary realities that would have had me shaking my teenage head in utter disbelief:
- Americans buy more than 200 bottles of water per person every year, spending more than $20 billion in the process.
- People everywhere scoop up their dog’s excrement, deposit it into small plastic bags that they then carry with them to the nearest garbage receptacle. (Here’s a related—and very telling—factoid, first pointed out to me in a top-drawer piece by New York Times Columnist David Brooks: there are now more American homes with dogs than there are homes with children.)
- On any given night in Canada, some 30,000 people are homeless. One in 50 of them is a child.
There are more examples I could give of current actualities my teen incarnation would scarcely have believed, but, to backtrack for a moment in the interests of fairness, pollution levels in Lake Ontario are in fact lower today than they were in 1970, although the lake can hardly be considered pristine. As the redoubtable Elizabeth May, head of Canada’s Green Party, points out in a recent statement, many of the worst environmental problems of the 70s have been effectively dealt with—toxic pesticides, acid rain, depletion of the ozone layer—but only because worthy activists like her fought long and hard for those solutions.
The fact is that we are a remarkably adaptable species, able to adjust to all manner of hardships, injustice and environmental degradation, so long as those changes come about slowly, and we are given to believe there’s not much we as individuals can do about it. Never has the metaphor of the frog in the slowly heating pot of water been more apropos than it is to the prospect of man-made climate change, for instance.
It’s not the cataclysmic changes that are going to get us. It’s the incremental ones.