A Polar Bear in St. Pete

Olivia London      

        I want to be in bed, not pulling fleece over my legs on a hot Saturday morning in Florida and carrying a neon green sign that says, “Please talk to me.” Just getting out of my car feels like shoving my body through a brick wall. God forbid someone actually sees this sign and starts talking to me. I could have proposed almost anything for my climate communication final project. I suddenly regret not choosing something that entailed comfortably writing in a café. 

        Weeks ago, when I had more energy and optimism – and, let’s be honest, I’m not known for thinking things through in advance – it sounded like a great idea to dress up as a polar bear, walk around downtown St. Pete, and talk to people about the local relevance of climate change. I’d say, “It’s not just a far-away polar bear’s problem!” and highlight some of the positive impacts we could all look forward to when St. Pete transitions to renewable energy. As my neon green sign explains, I want to imagine a future that will be good for polar bears and St. Petersburgers. But now, hungover from a cocktail of personal emotional turmoil, end-of-semester burnout, and my loyal friend, insomnia, this seems like one of the worst ideas I’ve ever had. 

        But I already got myself up early and the day is only getting hotter. While a polar bear melting to death in the middle of the Saturday Morning Market might be symbolically powerful, I figure I should get a move on and talk to as many people as possible before too long. According to Yale Program on Climate Change Communication’s “Six Americas,” over half of Americans are concerned or alarmed about climate change. The trick, therefore, is getting them to engage more with the topic and do something about it. I hike up my polar bear onesie, buckle my shiny pink fanny pack around my waist like an action hero charging into the fray, and walk into the crowd to do just that. 

    We learned in class that while climate change is undeniably a topic of doom, gloom, and apocalyptic probabilities, we also have to find the spaces of joy, seek out connection and community within activism, and amplify stories that excite people to take action rather than just stick their heads in the sand and cry (though crying is absolutely still welcome). St. Pete, or, more precisely, former Mayor Kriseman, committed to transitioning to 100% renewable energy by 2035. If we can actually pull it off, along with all the other cities making similar commitments, it could show that cities have the power to change the tide, especially in states where state government is dragging its feet.

    Aside from taking an important step toward slowing climate change in the long run, St. Pete would see immediate positive changes from transitioning to renewable energy. Yes, we’d still have to fight climate change, but we’d be doing that work in a city with electric-powered public transportation, new and well-paid green jobs, cleaner air, fewer issues for people with asthma or allergies, great walkability, alternative modes of transportation, greater energy independence, better public health, and maybe, fingers crossed, less traffic. That seems like a story worth shouting from the rooftops. Or, in my case, awkwardly chatting with people about downtown.

    I get up the nerve to approach the first person, a couple actually, innocently eating ambiguous lumps of food out of tinfoil under the shade of the Rowdies stadium. “Hi, do you have a minute to talk about renewable energy,” I ask. “It’s for a class project and I promise it will only take a minute.” They eye me skeptically. Kill me now. But they shrug and I perch on the curb beside them. I explain the whole St. Pete commitment and ask what they’d be excited about when 2035 rolls around and our city is running on green energy. Instead of answering the question (just answer the damn question!) the guy starts telling me how we can’t just transition all of a sudden but we need, you know, like some transitional steps along the way. (Internally I’m banging my head on a wall. Where is the coffee vendor? Maybe I need to go there before talking to anyone else.) As he’s talking, I notice his baseball cap is from University of Pittsburgh and I excitedly interrupt him to ask if he went to Pitt. Apparently the couple is from Pittsburgh and the guy used to skateboard all over the campus where I went to college. We spend awhile delightedly talking about Pittsburgh before mentally returning to Florida.

“Even though Pittsburgh is great, we came here for more sunshine, honestly,” the woman says. “Seems like this would be a great place for more solar power.”

“Yes!” I say. “And what if we had more solar, how great do you think that would be, like in other ways besides just having solar power?”

“Well, I guess we’d have lower electric bills, which would be nice” she says tentatively.

“Yeah, I’d certainly be excited about that too,” I say. And then they look at me like, why are you still here, so I thank them for talking and say I hope they love life in St. Pete, before walking away. Not the most groundbreaking conversation, but at least I've broken the ice.

In her book, Saving Us, Dr. Katharine Hayhoe outlines a framework for having effective climate conversations. She suggests identifying something you have in common with the other person (e.g. we both enjoy being out and about in St. Pete), being prepared, which in my case means having examples at the ready of what we can do in St. Pete, and finally, not being too attached to the outcome. Instead of getting someone to make a radical change, understand your goal may just be to plant a seed.

            For my project I wanted to talk with people the way Dr. Hayhoe seemed to do so thoughtfully throughout her book. We did an activity in class to find our unique place within climate action based on the overlap between what brings us joy, our skills, and the wide range of things that need to happen for us to make a dent in climate change. My Venn Diagram had led to this obvious outcome – dress up as a polar bear and talk to people! But, if so, why am I so uncomfortable doing it? Here is the confusing part of what brings me (and perhaps other people) joy: pushing outside of my comfort zone is really satisfying. I’ve been to the Saturday Market many times, but never with this perspective and attunement to the people around me and never with more purpose than to pick up some vegetables. I’m sweating like crazy, still struggling each time I push myself to approach a new person, yet also starting to get in the groove of this. I talk with a little kid who loves walking places, Suzette who uses an electric scooter and wants to have solar panels on her home, a guy who talks about the spirituality of caring for the environment, two friends from Texas who brag about their windmills, and several people excited about the prospect of better public transportation. I talk to a guy out with his own clipboard asking for signatures to get a new politician on the ballot, figuring, hey, we’re both out here breaking social norms by asking things of strangers who just want to get to the waffle vendor. We excitedly connect over his enthusiasm for well-paid, just-transition green jobs. And because I now have far greater empathy for the struggle faced by anyone out here talking to strangers, I sign his thing too. 

  We might both be uncomfortable each time we try to engage with someone new, but climate action isn’t supposed to be comfortable, is it? While a goal of my project is to get people excited about imagining a bright future with meaningful climate action, let me be real, if we expect to mitigate and adapt to climate change, people are going to have to get a lot more out of their comfort zones than dressing like a bear and talking to strangers. The least I can do is button up my onesie and get serious about this! (Just kidding, you will never be serious in a polar bear onesie.)

Several people express doubts about St. Pete transitioning to renewable energy by 2035. It is both not soon enough and too soon for them to believe we can do it. “You’re right,” I tell them. “A commitment is just hot air (pun fully intended) if we don’t have the political will and funding to back it up.” I tell them that another part of my project is asking Mayor Welch to put money behind the commitment (which was, after all, made by the previous mayor) by applying for grants available right now through the Bipartisan Infrastructure Bill. I invite them to join me in a social media campaign for this, but I don’t push very hard because I’m weird about social media. In the end, I have a lot of good conversations, about twenty-five, in fact, only get a few photos, including my favorite with a bulldog named Skeeter, and don’t get anyone posting on social media. But aside from being terribly thirsty, I also feel very satisfied and eager to do this again.

            In the final section of What We Think About When We Try Not To Think About Global Warming: Toward a New Psychology of Climate Action, Per Espen Stoknes discusses how we deal with the despair that will inevitably hit anyone with half a soul and their eyes open. It is, he suggests, our sensitivity that will save us. If we become numb to the dying ecosystems, disappearing species, rising sea levels, bleaching corals, and disrupted human communities, all resulting from climate change that is inarguably (well, some people are still arguing) caused by humans and which humans are infuriatingly slow in doing nearly enough about, then we also risk becoming numb to the joy of all that is worth saving. He goes further in saying that, while outcomes do matter (for example, saving the world), we can’t just focus on reaching outcomes. Rather, climate action becomes part of our lives and identities in ways that enrich who we are and how we engage with the world. Stoknes quotes Gary Snyder, climate action is “a matter of character and it’s a matter of style.” Yes, I would be thrilled if Mayor Welch sees my photos and writes to say, “Wow, Olivia, thank you. I will commit to prioritizing this transition. You are a St. Pete hero and I would like to hire you to continue this amazing work.” But I’m not hanging my hopes on that. 

Instead, I realize that I like who I am when I’m dressed in a bear suit talking to strangers about renewable energy. As a yoga teacher whose name I forget once said, “I like who I am when I try.” Plus, I think dressing as a polar bear shows a certain flair for style, and I can’t deny my love of a dramatic look.

In the book, Stoknes also emphasizes that climate actions reach further if they “radiate joy and enthusiasm.” That must start to come through as I post an explanation of what I'm doing followed by my first photos on Instagram and Twitter with captions about what each person was looking forward to in St. Pete 2035. One friend, perhaps excited about climate activism that actually looks fun and doable, expresses interest in coming out with me. Once I get past my confusion over his earnest desire to join me for this shitshow, we make plans to meet at Vinoy Park a few days later.

My friend takes the neon green sandwich board of signs and puts them over his own shoulders as we walk toward the Pier. Approaching each new person still feels like a feat of willpower, but having a friend makes this a lot more fun. We talk with 18 people, including a henna artist/karaoke busker, a guy visiting from Puerto Rico, a family that enjoys stargazing, and a woman I imagine might be getting stood up for a date but who is wearing a cute red dress and kick-ass sunglasses and is really sweet, so I hope her date showed up to find out how lucky they are to meet her. We even get catcalled, but I think they were saying something pro-renewables, so I’ll roll with that. 

        A person named Lydia talks about wanting her friends’ kids to be born into a world already running on solar and full of cleaner air. But then she stops and adds, “wait, we’re young too! I want a better environment for us!” I’m delighted by her exclamation, bringing this topic closer to herself right in front of my eyes, much like what we read in Saving Us about the importance of making climate more personal. I tag Dr. Hayhoe, who is a climate communication icon, in the post about Lydia and am stunned when I open my Twitter notifications the next day to see she’s liked my post! Car Free St. Pete also gives me a like and retweet. Mayor Welch never responds to my tweets and, given that I’m far from a high-profile social media influencer, I’ll understand if he never does. (Side note, if you’re on twitter, follow me @OlivLon!)

            I talk with a family waiting for poems by Gio’s Typos and they get on a roll talking about all the health issues, like asthma and cancer, that could be reduced if we had renewable energy and therefore cleaner air and less pollution. A man who really loves his electric car (but hates sharing a charging space) brings up an important consideration – as St. Pete gets even better through this transition, we still want our city to be affordable for the people who live here now. I am meeting all these great people in my community who I never would have gotten to talk with if not for my polar bear suit. Turns out, climate action gives you a great inroad for talking to strangers. Don’t be surprised if you see a polar bear out in the future using her new favorite line, “Hey there, wanna talk about renewable energy and St. Pete’s commitment? It’s for a class and only takes a few minutes.” Please don’t tell my new friends the class is over.

References:

Global Warming’s Six Americas. (2022, February 10). Yale Program on Climate Change Communication. https://climatecommunication.yale.edu/about/projects/global-warmings-six-americas/

Hayhoe, K. (2021). Saving Us. Macmillan Publishers.

Stoknes, P. E. (2015). What We Think About When We Try Not To Think About Global Warming: Toward a New Psychology of Climate Action. Chelsea Green Publishing.

Xie, D. (2022, April 5). Planning Campaigns [Guest Lecture]. Climate Change Communication, St. Petersburg, FL.  

Thank you to Dr. Jo Huxster and Dan Xie, National Political Director of Student PIRGs for so much advice and support on my project.