I have always loved winter. The cold makes me feel sharp and alive. “Yes, I lived through that,” I feel myself thinking everytime someone remarks on how cold growing up in Chicago must be. Barren trees, sunsets at 4pm, scraping snow off of my car after school – all badges of honor to me. But a 90 degree day, on the other hand? I feel sluggish, unfocused and scared. Scared for my future and the future of our planet, a world in which record breaking heat will become increasingly normal. Through studying Environmental Thought & Practice at UVA, I’ve realized just how insidiously a new version of “normal” can arrive. Indifference in relation to climate change is often framed as the active decision to not engage, to not care. However, the true terror of indifference can be found in how very much we want to care, yet how easy it is to carry on.
There was a day here in Charlottesville last January where the temperature hit 70 degrees. 70 degrees in January! As a Chicagoan I was totally disturbed, but as an average human, I walked up Rugby Road that day pleasantly satisfied with the warmth on my skin. How could you not be? That is what was most terrifying– how inconsequential the day felt. It was a Friday, so all the frat boys were out playing spikeball on Mad Bowl, people were relaxing on the Lawn. Typical UVA afternoon activities– but it was January, not April. Refusing to feel joy at the prospect of a warm day is a difficult task. Humans have short memories.
Or do we?
Another late January, thirteen years ago. The 2011 Chicago blizzard– like a fairytale now. What really happened, and what have I built up in my mind, over ten years later?
Real: my sister Eve’s golden birthday on February 2nd. School was canceled, Dad’s job unreachable. Our family spent the day alternating between our cozy house and the now otherworldly outdoors, blinding snow in every direction as far as the eye could see.
And what about that snow? Did I really walk on top of giant white mounds, arms stretched out for balance as if I were on a tightrope? Could my dad and I actually carve out the snow with our bare hands and crawl into it like a cave?
does the truth of the moment even matter? isn’t that the point of a fairytale?
I remember that time as being so magical.
Of course, being seven years old, I didn’t have to consider a host of adult responsibilities and problems that the blizzard greatly exacerbated. O’Hare airport canceled flights, cars were stranded for miles on Lake Shore Drive, and thousands of residents lost power. The Chicago Tribune reported that seven people died in what is now referred to as “Snowmageddon” - something I never knew, until reading about the event all these years later.
However, as I continued researching, I also saw all the unique ways that human connection appeared across the city. An ABC7 article looking back on the blizzard ten years later stated that “the weather also brought the snowed-in city closer,” from neighbors shoveling each others’ driveways to snowball fights and sledding. Without a doubt, I don’t minimize the massive tragedies such extreme weather can cause. But something about the way that winter can humble us, a reminder of our imperfect humanity on a vast, beautiful Earth– the feeling has burned in me ever since that one cold January.
I still tell myself fairy tales about the world today. We all do, in various forms– that climate change isn’t real, that it’s not our responsibility, that it’s all our responsibility. That Chicago will be covered in snow this Christmas. I’ll believe in that one every year, personally.
Walking up Beta Bridge, I make a vow to myself. Not to go vegetarian, or take shorter showers, or walk more. I won’t personally save the world, starting tomorrow. But I will always, always remember what it feels like to be seven years old (and ten and thirteen and nineteen), face turned toward the sky, heart warmed by the cold.
