Becca's Blog

One of those aha moments.

I was just catching up on podcasts, and listening to an old Science Friday episode about hominid fossils. I've always been somewhat interested in anthropology, and someday I'd like to have a decent grasp of the scope of human evolution (that is, how long have we actually been here?). It seems like it's a straightforward fact that I should be able to just learn, but it's slippery, and I can't conceptualize it.

This podcast actually helped me a bit to put into context all the "x million" and "x-ty thousand years ago" numbers that get attached to Lucy and Artie, and all the other fossil remnants of our ancestors. The guest expert mentioned (casually, as if it were an obvious point) that there have been many hominid species: Neanderthals, homo erectus, australopithecus, and plenty more. First little zing of an aperçu: Oh. Homo sapiens is a species like golden eagles and redtails are species. I love reminders that we people are just animals. And I like that we (homo sapiens, that is) aren't solitary or unique; we're part of a big family, and we used to have a lot of relatives.

As the interview continues, the expert describes how homo sapiens moved into territories and extirpated the other hominid species wherever they migrated to. Then the full realization dawns on me: Homo sapiens is an invasive species, like cowbirds and mitten crabs and thistles. We aren't the chosen species—we just won, a long time ago.

It's kind of obvious once yout think about it. I just appreciate that we are no better, or necessarily worse, than any other species. We do have unequaled power to wreak havoc, which is very unfortunate. It's good that we also have the power to control our environment-destroying tendencies, if we will.

And nature lovers tend to get all judgey and hostile about invasive species like house sparrows and starlings, but we're no better. I really like that idea.

How can I make amends to the oceans?

I know that headline sounds self-aggrandizing. I imagine that everyone (with the possible exception of Dick Cheney) feels grief, and at least a little remorse, about the oil that's been hemorrhaging into the Gulf of Mexico for over a month. So many people I know feel some spiritual connection to the ocean that we have to all feel this loss. But I can only talk about my feelings and how I might respond.

The fact that the Gulf is likely to be a dead zone for years to come makes me feel physically ill. I feel guilt and sorrow for the millions of ocean- and marsh-dwelling creatures who can't be protected from the pollution of their home. I feel regret and worry for the thousands of people whose livelihoods are ruined for who knows how long. I feel that the people of the Gulf Coast region have suffered enough already and this is really unfair. I feel selfish regret that this is one more place I haven't yet been that is now trashed.

I wonder if BP, faced with a ruinously high judgment for cleanup, will simply declare bankruptcy and disappear, leaving American citizens holding the bag once again. I know this will be litigated until we're all dead, and I wonder how President Obama intends to make BP "pay for every cent of the cleanup." I think about how much can't be fixed with money. I wonder if the allegations of shortcuts and negligence will ever be proved and if BP and its partners can be convicted and sent to jail for aggravated assault on the world. I want more than an apology from BP and its shareholders; I'd like to see someone commit hara-kiri on TV.

The things I can think of to do in response seem so pathetic: Venting my grief and anger in a message to my elected representatives will get me form letters in return. They'll posture and demagogue about this in predictable ways.

I want to drive my car even less, clamp down on our household energy use even more, and try really hard to use much less disposable plastic (because it all seems to ultimately end up in the ocean and it's made from virgin petroleum, for fuck's sake). I'll be making a donation to the International Bird Rescue Resource Center. I wish I could go to Louisiana and spend two weeks scrubbing rocks. It doesn't seem like much.