Notes on climate denial
We tell ourselves stories in order to live. In Phoenix, where I grew up, the heat was a living thing. It shimmered on the sidewalks, turned the Salt River into a mirror of white light. We knew heat. We lived with it, expected it, planned our lives around it. But we didn’t talk about climate.
Now, in the twilight of the American century, we talk about little else. The stories we tell ourselves have shifted. Or perhaps they haven’t shifted enough.
I am thinking now of a man I met in Houston. Let’s call him Jim. Jim doesn’t believe in climate change. He says this plainly, without embarrassment, the way one might state a preference for scrambled eggs over fried. Jim works in oil. Has done for thirty years. His father worked in oil. His grandfather worked in oil. In Houston, this is not unusual.
Jim’s house is large, air-conditioned, with a pool in the backyard that nobody uses. The grass is always green, even in August when the temperature climbs past 100 degrees Fahrenheit for weeks on end. Jim waters it religiously, every other day, because that’s what you do in Houston. You keep up appearances.
“It’s just cycles,” Jim tells me over iced tea on his back porch. “The Earth goes through cycles. Always has, always will.”He says this with the certainty of a man who has never doubted his own rightness. I wonder, briefly, what that must feel like.
The day I speak to Jim, it’s 95 degrees. In February. This doesn’t seem to bother him.
I think about Jim often in the months that follow. I think about him when I read reports of glaciers melting, of sea levels rising, of storms growing more intense. I think about him when I see footage of wildfires consuming entire towns in Arizona, my home state now unrecognizable, a place of perpetual emergency.
We tell ourselves stories in order to live. What story is Jim telling himself?
In New York, I meet Sarah. Sarah has a PhD in climate science from Columbia. She speaks in the measured tones of someone used to being doubted, used to having to defend her expertise. “The data is clear,” she tells me. “The planet is warming. Human activity is the cause. The consequences will be catastrophic if we don’t act.”
Sarah shows me graphs, charts, projections. The lines all point up. Up and to the right. Warmer. Drier. More extreme.
I think about Jim in Houston, watering his lawn in February.
In Miami Beach, I walk along streets that flood regularly now, even on sunny days. The locals call it “sunny day flooding.” They say it like it’s normal. Like streets are supposed to be underwater when there isn’t a cloud in the sky.
A real estate agent tells me beachfront property is still a good investment. “They’ll figure something out,” he says. “They always do.”
Who are “they”? I want to ask. But I don’t. I already know the answer. “They” are the nameless, faceless others we rely on to solve our problems. “They” are the people who will save us from ourselves.
In Washington D.C., I sit in on a congressional hearing about climate change. The scientists speak in urgent tones. They present data, projections, worst-case scenarios. The politicians nod gravely. They ask questions that reveal they haven’t read the reports, haven’t looked at the data. They’re performing concern for the cameras.
Afterward, in the hallway, I overhear two staffers talking. “It doesn’t matter,” one says. “Nobody cares about climate change. They care about jobs, about the price of gas. That’s what wins elections.”
I think about Jim in Houston again. About his certainty. About the story he tells himself.
We tell ourselves stories in order to live. But what happens when the stories we tell ourselves are no longer enough? What happens when reality intrudes, insistent and undeniable?
In California, I drive through land scorched by wildfires. The hills are black, skeletal. The air smells of ash. I pass signs for towns that no longer exist, consumed by flames. In the rearview mirror, the sky is orange, apocalyptic.
I think about the real estate agent in Miami Beach. “They’ll figure something out,” he had said. Looking at the charred landscape, I wonder—what if they don’t?
Back in New York, I meet Sarah again. She looks tired. “It’s hard,” she says. “Knowing what’s coming and not being able to stop it. Watching people deny what’s right in front of them.”
I ask her why she thinks people like Jim refuse to accept the reality of climate change. She sighs. “It’s easier,” she says. “It’s easier to believe everything will be fine. That we don’t have to change. That we don’t have to sacrifice anything.”
We tell ourselves stories in order to live. But what if our stories are killing us?
In Houston, Jim’s lawn is still green. The sprinklers run on schedule, even as the city implements water restrictions. His pool remains full, a rectangle of blue in an increasingly brown landscape.
“It’s just a dry spell,” Jim tells me when I call. “It’ll pass. Always does.”
I want to tell Jim about the fires in Arizona, California, about the floods in Miami Beach. I want to show him Sarah’s graphs, her projections. I want to make him understand.
But I don’t. Because I know it won’t matter. Jim’s story is too comforting, too familiar. To give it up would be to admit that the world is not what he thought it was. That the future is not guaranteed. That everything might not, in fact, be okay.
We tell ourselves stories in order to live. But sometimes, the stories we tell ourselves are lies. Comfortable lies, perhaps. Necessary lies, even. But lies nonetheless.
As I hang up the phone, I wonder—what story will we tell ourselves when the lies no longer work? When the heat is no longer just a shimmering mirage on the sidewalk, but a force that reshapes our world? When the waters rise not just on sunny days in Miami Beach, but everywhere, relentless and unforgiving?
What story will we tell ourselves then?
I don’t know. But I hope, for all our sakes, it’s a better story than the one we’re telling now. A truer story. A story that might, just might, allow us to live.
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