On Friday, I ambled a few miles to a plaza just outside Harvard Yard. There, in the shadow of a science building built with a donation from Edwin Land and shaped roughly like his invention, the Polaroid Camera, I looked around for a climate change protest scheduled to start at 11 a.m. It was 10:45 and no sign of a hubbub. That is, except for a a half-dozen students marching away from the plaza and chanting, "You say climate, I say strike! You say climate, I say strike!" Then an old woman dressed tail to claw as a lobster appeared, grasping a sign that read "Lobster Stewed" on one side and "Cooked by Climate" on the other. She wandered among the food trucks, as if seeking a pot.
I veered east and wandered among brick buildings and stately oak trees, then returned to the plaza. It was eleven o'clock now and a crowd of about 200 folks had suddenly appeared. Students, kids, older folks -- instant protest. They gathered in a circle around a young person on a riser who was talking too rapidly into a microphone. I couldn't hear much. The mood was upbeat, the day warm and cloudless.
I veered east and wandered among brick buildings and stately oak trees, then returned to the plaza. It was eleven o'clock now and a crowd of about 200 folks had suddenly appeared. Students, kids, older folks -- instant protest. They gathered in a circle around a young person on a riser who was talking too rapidly into a microphone. I couldn't hear much. The mood was upbeat, the day warm and cloudless.
Scores of people had brought protest signs. They held them high, they posed for selfies and group shots. I cruised about, making a survey. Hey, nice job, makers of One Earth, One Chance with the Os in emergency red. Divest Harvard -- simple, direct. Liar, Liar, Climate Denier -- fun if frivolous. Then there was Climate Justice is Racial Justice, brought to you by the intersectionality crowd. Capitalism is Not Sustainable -- nice pun there. Like the Sea, We are Rising -- an earnest sentiment raised by a couple of middle-school students. From the awkward wording department: Act Like Your Home is on Fire Because It Is. Actually, your home is flooded or blown down or uninsurable or sliding into a morass of melting permafrost, too, but let's not quibble. It was hard not to smile at this oldie but goodie: RESPECT YOUR MOTHER with Earths for the Os. A Harvardite clad in black hoisted Use Privilege Responsibly -- a bit didactic, don't you think? Two or three signs reminded us that There is no Planet B, even though Jeff Bezos and Elon Musk might not agree.
And the day's winner for me was the multi-layered, multi-colored poem just above.
And the day's winner for me was the multi-layered, multi-colored poem just above.
Speaking of teenage climate-icon Greta Thunberg, several children held up signs announcing Climate Strike in Swedish. I briefly chatted with one Greta fan, a little girl named Charlie. We shook hands and I wished her good luck. I meant good luck carrying that sign around all day. Plus good luck keeping the protests going in the months and years ahead when others lose heart. And good luck growing up in a stormy world severely compromised by...oh, just good luck, kid. You're gonna need it.
Speakers kept speaking, so I squinted my ears real hard to hear. One passionate Harvard student expressed disgust for her university's refusal to divest from the fossil fuel stocks in its 39 billion dollar endowment. "Harvard is profiting off all this," she declared, with a measure of surprise. "I'm beyond angry, just tired." She finished by lamenting that Harvard -- always a deeply conservative institution, versus the liberal paradise I guess she imagined when she opened the golden acceptance ticket -- would never feel like home.
Man, that made me feel sad for her, up to her knees in the scales falling from her eyes. I doubt little Charlie will ever have such debilitating illusions.
So, anyway, the protest continued for awhile -- at some point, Obama's EPA director got red-faced hollering about hope and change -- and then, presto, done. Everyone went home or to class or to meet more protesters at Boston City Hall. Even the lobster lady bugged out. I stood in the sparsely-populated plaza, making notes beside the odd, enduring rock-field sculpture by Carl Andre -- who, it turns out, was babysat by my mother in the 1930s. They're both still alive, holding on for their dear lives. He liked peanut butter sandwiches, she recalls.
Speakers kept speaking, so I squinted my ears real hard to hear. One passionate Harvard student expressed disgust for her university's refusal to divest from the fossil fuel stocks in its 39 billion dollar endowment. "Harvard is profiting off all this," she declared, with a measure of surprise. "I'm beyond angry, just tired." She finished by lamenting that Harvard -- always a deeply conservative institution, versus the liberal paradise I guess she imagined when she opened the golden acceptance ticket -- would never feel like home.
Man, that made me feel sad for her, up to her knees in the scales falling from her eyes. I doubt little Charlie will ever have such debilitating illusions.
So, anyway, the protest continued for awhile -- at some point, Obama's EPA director got red-faced hollering about hope and change -- and then, presto, done. Everyone went home or to class or to meet more protesters at Boston City Hall. Even the lobster lady bugged out. I stood in the sparsely-populated plaza, making notes beside the odd, enduring rock-field sculpture by Carl Andre -- who, it turns out, was babysat by my mother in the 1930s. They're both still alive, holding on for their dear lives. He liked peanut butter sandwiches, she recalls.
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