Vic Barrett speaks on stage during the New York City Climate Strike.
Many are coming to realize what young people have known for some time: A future filled with the comforts of modern living is not assured.
I am a first-generation Garifuna American. My people are an Afro-Indigenous community originally from the island of St. Vincent in the Caribbean. Throughout the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries, we were pushed from our homeland on St. Vincent by British colonialists, ending up on the eastern coast of Central America in Honduras. Despite the overwhelming adversity we experienced, we organized our community and emancipated ourselves to protect our future as a people.
My lived experience is molded through hundreds of years of a seemingly universal agreement that, due to my identity, things cannot come easily. People are often surprised that I’m a “tree hugger,” and that the climate movement is what I’ve found myself dedicated to. I am transgender, first-generation American, Latino, Black, and neurodivergent—there are so many movement spaces where I could have been welcomed and found a home.
Young people aren’t taking to the streets by the millions and participating in strikes just so people can see it on the news.
Somehow, I chose environmentalism, which has historically been one of the whitest and most elite movement spaces. But climate change isn’t just about rising temperatures and melting glaciers. It is not a singular problem, but rather a catastrophic symptom of the way the world is set up. To solve it, we need to address a range of issues having to do with how we treat each other.
I’ve spent nearly five years, a fifth of my life, as a plaintiff in the Juliana v. United States case, along with about twenty other young activists. The lawsuit asserts that the U.S. federal government’s actions and inactions with regard to climate change violate our generation’s Constitutional rights to life, liberty, and property. Since I was fifteen, I’ve given up many things—personal finances, friendships, a normal adolescence—to get up on the global stage, such as when I spoke at the U.N. General Assembly to address youth involvement in sustainability goals.
Though Juliana v. United States is still making its way through the courts, I feel fortunate to have the opportunity to actually hold the government accountable.
It’s now clear that, going back to the 1950s, politicians and decision-makers knew fossil fuel production would lead to disastrous events due to climate change. We have no choice but to break these patterns of “business as usual.”
Young people are incredibly aware that our planet is burning and that the politicians we’re supposed to trust—and the systems that are supposed to protect us—are insufficient. We’re well aware that climate injustice is putting those already on the margins—Black, Indigenous, low-income, and unhoused people—on the frontlines of disaster.
And the beautiful thing is that we’re fighting back. I’m proud to be a member of the most diverse generation to exist because we have an inherent dedication to looking out for each other. With all that is wrong, there is so much opportunity to make things right. Young people are fighting so hard because we’re looking to the future. We know we must turn around from the extractive and repetitive attitudes that have put us where we are.
Young people aren’t taking to the streets by the millions and participating in strikes just so people can see it on the news; we’re doing it so we can make the future that we deserve become a tangible reality.
For me, living my ideal story means embracing all the times I’ve had to lift myself up, go to another politician’s office, send another email, sit in on another Zoom call, feel fear and determination at another protest, and remind myself it is worth it to secure the sustainable future we deserve.