Young people skipped school today to tubthump (shout/protest). Their tenacity and passion is uplifting yet I have read many social media posts which chastise these kids. These same castigators seem to understand that climate change & sustainability issues are complex, multi-faceted problems which need to be addressed but they do little themselves to make a difference. After 30 years of international failure on dealing with these issues biodiversity continues to decline, hunger and poverty continue to increase, and access to clean water, sanitation, education is problematic for many. It is hard to frame these inter-related problems and it is equally difficult to agree and address solutions.
Please encourage our children to shout about issues which are important to them whether you agree with their viewpoints or not. Let’s be a society that encourages action rather than apathy. Let's listen to our children, discuss the issues, work together and empower them to look for solutions with us.
Here's a slice of flash fiction (2 min read) inspired by today's tubthumpers...
Photo by Ronan Furuta on Unsplash
Ko te manu e kai ana i te miro nōnā te ngahere, ko te manu e kai ana i te mātauranga nōnā te ao.
The forest belongs to the bird who feasts on the miro berry, the world belongs to the bird who feasts on education.
Gen Z are Tubthumping
It was Friday afternoon, and I had to get out for a walk in a vain attempt to silence Uncle from my head. My fingers were mimicking a seismograph – an ever-so-slight constant trembling with the occasional big jerk like the recording of an earthquake. I was feeling out of control. I was so angry that the blood in my veins was fizzing, like one of those home-made bottles of ginger beer that he used to ferment on the top shelf of his butler’s pantry. I remember when one exploded last summer – it was in February after we had had a run of 32-degree days. Like Uncle, the ferment was getting hotter and hotter, and angrier and angrier. I tried to warn him. I told him that he needed to do something to slow it down and release some pressure, but he wouldn’t listen to my science.
‘What do you know about chemistry at your age?’ He smirked. Uncle always thinks he knows better. The ferment won. The stopper flew out of the glass bottle at such a speed that it dug out a hole in the freshly painted white ceiling. It left a gooey mark, which is now a much-loved home for the neighbourhood flies. The glass bottle collapsed into a million-minute pieces. It made one hell-of-a mess, but Uncle didn’t clear up his wreckage. I did it. Twelve months later, Aunty is still cutting herself on little pieces of glass hiding in amongst his imported tins of Fortnum and Mason caviar and Uruguayan extra virgin olive oil.
Even at 13, I know more about chemistry and fermenting ginger beer than him.
After the Climate Strike I caught the school bus home and then sat on the couch and made the mistake of scrolling through mum’s Facebook feed. In amongst the photos she'd posted of me holding up a sign which read "There is no planet B", was the latest keyboard warrior rant between Uncle and the old boys in his narrow little echo chamber. Their self-righteous, misguided prattle made me feel sick to the stomach. As I read through their witter which was posted beneath my photo it felt like Uncle was tying a rope around my chest. With each new comment I read, his boomer friends were pulling the rope around me tighter and tighter.
Boomer 1: "Gen Zers are so woke – they believe all that bullshit they see on TikTok about global warming. The earth’s not warming up – it’s been bloody cold this week and done nothing but rain."
Boomer 2: "My friend’s daughter bunked off school to join the climate strike. Her silly pinko mother dropped her off in her range rover! If she’s so green, why didn’t she catch the bus?"
Boomer 3: "The trouble with teenagers is that they have no idea how to think for themselves. Their lefty teachers are filling their heads with all this green nonsense."
And so, the jibes went on and on.
I had to leave the house. I had to be alone. I had to find a way to breathe fresh, clean air.
I hoped that a walk would distract me from dwelling on Uncle and his judgemental friends. You see they think they have life sussed because they listen to Simon Dallow on the 6 O’clock News, and think success looks like a bottle of Church Road Tom on a Friday night. They say they care about my future, as they open a second bottle of wine and hoe into their fancy French cheeses and Greek olives. I laced up my DMs, rammed my hands deep into the pocket of my op-shop jacket and tried to stop them from shaking. I marched along our street and along Avondale Road, only stopping to pick up a stray coke can that was rattling in the gutter. I put it in the wheelie bin outside number 5. I turned down Balmoral Street. I was like a soldier on a mission searching for the enemy. As I charged towards the steep slope of Pukekura (or the Sugar Loaf as Uncle insists on calling it), my stomping shifted to a flounce, then to a fling until I found myself transformed and flying like a Tui between the Kowhai, the Kanuka and the Ake Ake. A little bird caught my eye high up in a Miro tree. I stood and watched as she picked at the berries. Not recognising her I took my phone from my pocket, and googled her image searching for her name.
As I climbed higher up the hill, the views opened-up. My pace slowed. I smiled when I felt the gentle warm breeze in my long hair and the warmth of the setting sun against my skin. The earth was calling me. Stopping still, I lay down in the long grass and pressed my back firmly against the hillside. Thousands of metres of solid earth and rock held me, and together Papatūānuku and I began to breathe. In and out, in and out. Each inhale was deeper than the last and with each exhale the braids of the boomers rope began to loosen until mother earth and I were in perfect unison.
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