Environmentalism and Satire

By Cedulie Benoit-Smith

I have spent the better part of my secondary and higher education worrying that my two passions, climate and humor, are completely incompatible. This piece will explore the possibility of an intersection between environmentalism and satire, which, for brevity, I will refer to as “green satire.” My worry is that the seriousness of climate change coupled with the lightheartedness of satire would ultimately break even at zero: not funny, and not helpful. So, I began my research for this piece with Mark Usher, professor of Geography and Classics at UVM. He reminded me first that most satirists are, in fact, serious people. Especially in the era of Trump, satirists were making fun of him due to genuine discontent with his policies, past, and personality. To this end, green satire could come from satirists with genuine discontent with the climate crisis. But, finding people with the motivation to write or produce green satire is only a scratch on the surface. Green satirists must consider: When can we begin, what is the point, and what rules must we follow?

Is it too soon?

Is climate change still too fresh to joke about? What if writing jokes about climate change delegitimizes the issue, or worse, pushes people who are on the fence about climate change (namely those who have not had access to an accurate climate education) to back away from the issue altogether? Professor Usher stopped me here with the assertion, “nothing is sacrosanct.” This idea makes me squirm a bit, but he told me about one of the most successful satires of all time, a South Park episode released just weeks after 9/11. The episode addressed American life after the attacks and the American invasion of Afghanistan, and it ultimately received an Emmy nomination. This example suggests that even the most taboo of topics can be joked about, but what about the fundamental timeline of these jokes? The events of 9/11 happened for one day, with a foreseeable end in sight to the terror. Climate change, however, is never-ending. Is it different to make jokes about a tragedy that is still actively happening? Climate change is an omnipresent issue in modern politics, but so is war. Perhaps it depends on how far you zoom out. Climate change and the dawn of the Anthropocene are more than a period of modern war. War can be stopped when elites call for it to stop, while climate change is a rolling ball that we can only really get out of the way of. Should we make jokes about things profoundly out of our control? How big of a difference even is there between climate change and war? Both are controlled by agents that average people are so far removed from that perhaps they may as well be one and the same. That’s why satire is so invaluable. Satire serves as a weapon against a force we cannot otherwise reckon with. Can satire be used as an agent of change?

Short answer: it’s complicated. No matter how hard you look, you will never find a piece of satire that can be directly attributed to political change. “Change” can mean many things, however. Professor Usher and I started our conversation by deciding what the point of green satire should be. Are we trying to change people’s minds? Impossible. The people whose minds need changing are the people we are satirizing. Are we trying to influence policy? Nope. There are plenty of climate-conscious lobbyists who don’t need our help. So, why do it? Reprieve. As Professors Singer and Gini from Loyola University of Chicago put it in their book The Sanity of Satire, “Joke telling and satire are, at the very least, a pleasant distraction…Jokes may not provide definitive answers, but they can alleviate some of our fears, afford comfort and distraction, and perhaps, just perhaps, offer us some perspective, some illumination in regard to these fundamentally irresolvable and yet unavoidable issues.”

Green satire can be cathartic! And yet catharsis and release from the eco-anxiety are not the only functions of humor. In 1999, Ted Cohen wrote, “joking about a deep or dangerous topic is a way of talking about it, examining it in a way that doesn’t scare us.” Just talking about climate change is in itself an act of environmentalism. Research by Ballew et al. in 2019 reported that only 36% of households in 2017 were discussing climate change. They go on to explain that because people are not talking to friends and family about climate change, they begin to grossly underestimate how many other people are concerned about it. They dub this the “spiral of silence” and go on to assert, “Ultimately, [this] impedes public engagement because interpersonal interaction and awareness of social consensus are instrumental to public recognition and collective action.” All this is to say, perhaps if people felt more comfortable talking about climate change at home, they would feel more comfortable demanding action from elites.

Additionally, green satire is accessible. Anyone can write or consume green satire, while not every person can afford green lifestyle changes. A stellar example of accessible green satire is Adam McKay’s Don’t Look Up. The movie was released by Netflix on December 24th 2021, just in time for college kids like myself to come home and watch it with their families. The movie features big names like Leonardo DiCaprio, Jennifer Lawrence, Meryl Streep, and the list goes on. The film is a green satire making fun of the United States’ response to a scientifically proven, in-coming asteroid, a metaphor for climate change. There are many critiques to be made here. NPR’s political correspondent Danielle Kurtzleben complains, “It’s like it’s trying to satirize an entire country. And when you’re trying to jab at everyone, you will land satisfying hits on absolutely no one. And what ends up happening—all the jokes come off as lazy. Like the messages that come out of this film are, did you know the media’s not paying enough attention to climate change and pays too much attention to celebrity news? Did you know that social media makes us all more shallow?” When I first watched the movie I found it unsatisfying how clear the metaphors were, a little insulted even. Perhaps McKay cast too large a net. But, McKay created a movie with enough famous actors that 111 million families chose to watch it together. McKay brought the climate conversation into 111 million households in a palatable way, started 111 million climate change conversations, and helped strike the first blow to weaken the climate spiral of silence.

Which way does green satire punch?

Climate change is perhaps the most multi-faceted issue facing humanity today. A changing climate affects every domain of life, and for that very reason, we should see a marriage between climate change and humor. The United Nations’ Sustainable Development Goals highlight an array of complicated issues as pieces to the climate change puzzle, including but not limited to poverty, hunger, health, well-being, education, and gender equality. To name this crisis in just two words does a disservice to it. As seen in the , if green satirists simply make “climate change,” little point be made. Additionally, green satirists need to be careful with the net they cast, because the issues they deal with are so nuanced and multifacetAt some point in every satirist’s career, they will hear the “punch up” mantra. In short, punching up is the idea that good jokes are made only at the expense of people or things in positions of power. Power can have many meanings—political, social, and physical. If you are making jokes about people who are below you, you’re not funny, you’re just mean. It’s important that the jokes you make as a green satirist are targeting the actual person in power, not those with the facsimile of responsibility. To the same extent, it is my personal belief that environmental radicalism must directly affect those in power, not those made to do their bidding. I believe it is morally unjust to put spikes in trees that will explode when hit by a chainsaw. The person operating that chainsaw did not elect to cut down that tree. Rather, they were instructed by a person up the line who has decided that the land the trees are on would be better used for a shopping center. The responsibility lies in the hands of the landowners, businessmen, etc. who are fully aware of the environmental impacts of their actions and do them anyway. This is not to say that green satire and environmental terrorism are one and the same. Instead, they are extreme examples of the effects of misplaced responsibility for agents of climate change. The man with the chainsaw is just trying to feed his family the same way the green satirist is. That might be punching sideways, but what’s the point? It’s not cathartic to make fun of the little guy. You’re not spurring thoughtful conversation about the role of elites in the climate crisis by making fun of the little guy. By making fun of the little guy, you’re making the climate conversation even more inaccessible to an already wary world.

Conclusion

As 2022 comes to a close, the world continues to grapple with a festering wound left unattended—the climate crisis. Elites continue to downplay and contribute to the crises we see across the globe, but green satire can serve as a weapon of the common people. Whether we turn to green satire as a channel for anger, a tool of change, or the topic of an essay in the Fall Edition of Headwaters magazine, we are all taking part in something never done before. The necessity for green satire, a form of comedy with no historical precedent, proves the uniqueness of the climate crisis. Our generation and the ones to follow are grappling with a world facing a dilemma without historical precedent, and as a result, we are turning to forms of expression that are equally unexplored. In this way, the unknown future does not have to be a frightening one. We are entering a new era of arts and sciences, one brought on by a global crisis, but one that will produce so many incredible works, the likes of which we have never seen. So, here’s to green satire: a greener future, and a funnier one. Do what you need to get through it, and remember, Do Punch Up. H

Art by Ella Weatherington

“Jamie?”

A knock on the door and the rattling of the doorknob steals my attention from the bathroom sink where I rest my head.

I pull my neck up, still in a trance-like state, my eyes glossy and face flushed red. I could hear the music outside, muffled by the peeling, tan painted door.

“Hey Jamie, you in there?”

Ow.

I didn’t know how long I had been standing there, but the lack of sweat suggested that it had taken a good amount of time for someone to come and check on me.

The countertop grabs my attention— the half rolled toothpaste and copious amounts of crumpled paper towels that sat shoved to the side.

Does anyone ever clean in here?

I become aware of how small the room is and how much it smells overwhelmingly like aftershave. Crumpling my nose, I open the door to see my friend Rowen’s face. She’s on her phone, the screen light illuminating the leftover streaks of makeup on her cheeks; the blue sparkles that are scattered on her face match the barrettes in her hair.

“Everything okay?” Rowen asks me.

I’m not quite sure.

“I think I just need some fresh air.”

“Ok, just text me if you need anything.” She walks away, leaving me stranded in the bathroom doorway. I run my fingers through my hair and begin walking towards the front door, pushing through the swarming bodies of people, each covered in their own scent of alcohol and sweat.

“I like your jeans!” a girl I don’t know calls out to me. They were bell bottoms with red, hand-painted hearts on the pockets.

“Thanks, they were thrifted,” I say for what was probably the fifth time this night.

I wonder if I would get fewer compliments if they were from H&M. But I was much happier buying second hand, recently frustrated that big corporations have been lying about how sustainable they are.

I find the door and push it open with little force, my rings glinting under the porch light, and walk down the stairs of the house. On the side of a curb I sit down, pressing my knees against my chest as the holes in my jeans let the cold air in.

Why did I wear these pants?

The city would be quiet if not for the thumping of the party and the various people scattered along the road. I feel my arms being invaded by goose bumps as every breath I take is followed by a sniffle. I shudder, remembering the exact spot where I left my coat and regret not grabbing it. The black halter top I wore did nothing for me, the shitty $5 material making it feel like a napkin against my skin, but I liked how confident I felt in it.

But then again, that was the sacrifice, wasn’t it? Sometimes my goal was to look good, not save the world.

I knew the consequence of buying that top. I knew the website was unethical, but I couldn’t afford a $45 sustainably-made top, no matter how much I wish I could.

But why did I have to buy that top? It’s not like it was my goddamn fault anyways. My individual actions seemed hopeless in the face of the massive quantities of greenhouse gas emissions from large corporations across the world.

My eyes focused on the two trash cans that sat on the opposite side of the street, filled to the brim with red solo cups and beer bottles, some spilling onto the sidewalk. I thought about my dorm room, the way the trashcan by my desk always seemed to look the same way as these cans did now. I wasn’t necessarily a messy person, but at the same time, my dorm never seemed to be clean— the ramen wrappers and empty packs of gum seemed to be omnipresent, followed by the box of tampons, and the Friday night White Claws that somehow were always room

“You can’t be Greta Thunberg all the time,” Rowen once said to me, knowing how bothered I felt when the trash filled to the brim.

“You’re a college student living in a dorm that’s smaller than your bedroom at home. Give yourself a break.”

I know she’s right, but it still feels wrong. My consumerism only intensified once I got to college. At home, it was easy to deal with, but now from the basic necessities to trying to save money, it felt impossible to make eco-conscious decisions.

Between the alcohol and the lack of sleep, I feel my mind start to race. The familiar guilt crawls up my spine as I stare at the waste in front of me. I pull out my phone in the hope that I will be distracted.

“15 years left.”

If I don’t always care - who else will?

It seemed like there wasn’t a time when I didn’t feel the weight of the burning world on my shoulders.

“10 years left.”

Every effort I make seems to be replaced by some other issue; Use a reusable cup—what about the bottles your skin care comes in? Buy reusable face pads—okay, great, but what are you going to do about all of your tampons? Constantly having to care seemed like the curse of my gen- eration.

It felt like it was never enough.

“5 years left.”

The light of my phone flashes on my face as I keep on scrolling, but no post is better than the last.

“There is No Planet B.”

More scrolling,

“The Amazon is burning.”

Scrolling, scrolling

“We are in the sixth mass extinction.”

Time’s up.

I quickly turn off my phone and look up to the sky, clutching my chest as I try to find my breath.

“Breathe,” I tell myself, “Just breathe.”

In and out, In and out, In and out.

I stare up at the black sky, noticing the stars speckled across the night sky, each of them shining bright on their own against the clouds that hovered over. My mind slows down and serenity washes over me. Sometimes moments become too overwhelming, sometimes my actions feel useless, but I look up and gather myself: a reminder that I am only human. H