English Education, V51 N4, July 2019

Provocateur Piece*

English Education for a Sustainable Future

(or Why We Need Writing Teachers at the
End of the World)

Michael B. Sherry

How might English educators respond to the increasing need for advocacy associated with climate
change and ecological sustainability? As alternatives to these stories of isolation and despair, I offer
empowerment strategies based in Dr. Joanna Macy’s “The Work that Reconnects,” which emerges
from her 30 years of environmental advocacy. In contrast with other calls to social and political
activism, action is the last stage of this four-step, spiral approach that includes coming from grati-
tude, honoring our pain for the world, seeing with new eyes, and going forth.

D evastating wildfires in the U.S. Northwest, drought and declining crop

yields in the Midwest, and powerful hurricanes that have recently
struck the Southeast and U.S. Caribbean can all be linked to climate change,
according to the U.S. Global Change Program (2018). Moreover, we know
that humans have consumed more natural resources in the past 50 years
than in all our previous history (2020 Vision Workgroup, 2009), while the
world’s population continues to grow at a rate of approximately 77 million
people per year (United Nations, 2017). Yet since Robert Yagelski’s (2005)
call to action, few English education scholars have taken up his invocation
of ecological sustainability (see Beach, Share, & Webb, 2017). One reason for
this may be that large-scale, systemic problems related to the environment

*The term provocateur has its origin in then-NCTE President Sandy Hayes’s welcome to the
CEE 2013 Summer Conference, during which she shared her wish that she could swap the
“troublemaker” label she had been given for her name badge at the International Society
for Technology in Education conference the month before with then-NCTE Executive Di-
rector Kent Williamson’s, who was fittingly labeled “provocateur.” I can think of no better
inspiration than Kent for this section. TSJ

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often seem too big and too daunting to face. In this Provocateur Piece, I offer
to English educators, teachers, and students an approach to countenancing
these problems as an often-ignored first step toward activism.

Stories of Our Ecology

The stories we tell about our world have the power to shape our lives. Rachel
Carson’s (1962) Silent Spring, perhaps the first and best-known example of
environmental advocacy writing, captured the public’s imagination not only
because it revealed the disinformation spread by chemical industries, but also
because it envisioned the future consequences of the indiscriminate use of
pesticides on an interconnected ecosystem. The “silent spring” of the title is
part of a “fable for tomorrow” (p. 10) that imagines the stillness of a season
in which no birds sing, no chicks hatch, no bees buzz, and no fruit blooms.
As English educators, we know well that a single piece of writing can
make a difference against impossible odds, precisely because of its ability to
remind us of our interconnectedness. Yet a search of NCTE’s journal archives
yields only a handful of articles that address topics such as sustainability,
environmental literacy, and ecological advocacy (e.g., Bruce, 2011; Collier,
2017; Saidy, 2017). One notable exception is Beach, Share, and Webb’s (2017)
book, Teaching Climate Change to Adolescents. Perhaps the biggest obstacle
to action in this area is not our willingness to act, but a persistent way of
thinking that props up a sense of our separateness from “the more-than-
human world” (Abram, 1996). As Beach et al. (2017) assert, “Literacy and
the imagination are critical tools for comprehending and addressing climate
change. In contrast, by not teaching about climate change, we are allowing
our silence to normalize unsustainable systems and ideologies with disastrous
consequences for everyone and everything” (p. vii). Below, I draw from the
work of Dr. Joanna Macy and her colleagues (Macy & Brown, 1989; Macy
& Johnstone, 2012) on “The Work That Reconnects,” a four-step, spiral ap-
proach developed through more than 30 years of global ecological activism,
to offer suggestions for how we might encourage writers of all ages to begin
the work of bearing witness to this overwhelming problem.
An eco-philosopher and environmental activist, Macy offers three sto-
ries, or ways of organizing our experiences, that describe possible reactions
to our current ecological situation.

1. Business as Usual—“As long as I can continue to succeed, there is

little need to change the way we live.”

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2. The Great Unraveling—“Our current ways are unsustainable, and it

is already too late to save ourselves.”
3. The Great Turning—“This is a pivotal moment: together, we can cre-
ate a life-sustaining global society.”

Who among us has not lived all three of these stories at some point? For my
part, it wasn’t until the eye-stinging, rotting smell of hundreds of thousands
of dead fish affected my own community, disrupting “Business as Usual,”
that I began to learn about the effects of agricultural runoff on toxic red tides
(e.g., Wei-Haas, 2018). Likewise, I have subscribed to “The Great Unraveling,”
turning off the car radio rather than listening to the painful news of another
environmental disaster linked to climate change. Somewhere between these
two perspectives is another feeling that I (and perhaps many of us) have felt:
“Why me? I’m just an English teacher. What can I possibly do?”
Though ecological issues may seem like the province of science educa-
tion, English teachers perhaps know best that a small band of heroes (perhaps
even a trio from Gryffindor) can face impossible odds and win. Our current
students are not only the future citizens and leaders who will begin to make
changes but also the writers and filmmakers who will document and amplify
those changes (e.g., Laurent & Dion, 2015). Moreover, UNESCO (2017) has
now established the link we have long sensed, as writing teachers, between
linguistic diversity and biodiversity: As we lose the ability to name things
with language, those things become endangered. And so it falls to us to help
students learn to wield words for advocacy, as well as its often-overlooked
partners: feeling and imagination.

The Spiral of “The Work That Reconnects”

Macy’s “The Work That Reconnects,” used in workshops, conferences, and
activist groups around the world, lends itself well to individual and collab-
orative writing about despair and empowerment associated with ecological
issues. Its four simple steps form a spiral that, like other naturally occurring
fractals, can be repeated endlessly in widening or tightening levels of scope
and scale. The four steps are:

1. Coming from Gratitude

2. Honoring Our Pain for the World
3. Seeing with New Eyes
4. Going Forth

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Notably, “Going Forth”—the step often associated with activism—is preceded

by three other, equally important steps often ignored by calls to social and
political action. Aligning with Macy, I suggest that such action may appear
inaccessible or misguided without the grounding provided by these preced-
ing steps, each of which I address below by drawing on research and on
accompanying stories from my own experiences.

Coming from Gratitude

Researchers across disciplines (e.g., Wood, Froh, & Geraghty, 2010) have
found that gratitude—not just the basic, fleeting thanks one exchanges at the
end of a grocery line, but deep appreciation for the gifts of one’s world—has
many benefits. For individuals, practicing gratitude can result in better
relationships, improved health, and increases in positive feelings such as
empathy and self-esteem. I have shed grateful tears when a family member
took my desperate call, reminding me that I am not alone. Gratitude can
also benefit society as a whole by reducing materialism and encouraging
people to “give back” or “pay it forward” in ways that contribute to general
well-being (McCullough, Kimeldorf, & Cohen, 2008). Additionally, recent
research links gratitude to time spent in nature: When humans are more
aware of their connectedness to the natural world, they are more likely to
express caring and generosity (e.g., Weinstein, Przybylski, & Ryan, 2009).
After a walk alone in the woods, I listen more patiently to my daughter. As
Macy and Johnstone (2012) note, some cultures have long known that giving
thanks to nature is key to our survival: We are interdependent with others,
including soil, plants, and animals.
To begin to invite writing inspired by the spiral, teachers might prompt
students to find a place beyond the classroom, if possible, and consider these
open-ended statements about gratitude:
> A place that was magical to me as a child was . . .
> Some things I love about being alive on Earth are . . .
> Someone who helped me to believe in myself is or was . . . <

The Sledding Hill

I sit in my car before the entrance, remembering. Where once there was a
park, there is now a parking lot and a glittering office building. Despite my
sadness, I recall with gratitude a winter morning 25 years ago.
I awoke that day to find that heavy snow had fallen during the night,
followed by freezing rain. A layer of frozen whiteness coated sidewalks, cars,

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and tree limbs. Local high schools canceled classes. My teenage friends and
I, freed for the day, slid down driveways and poured boiling water over car
door handles and windshields to free them from the ice.
Fishtailing through unplowed, empty side streets in an old station
wagon, we headed for a local park that housed an impressive sledding hill.
Its long, steep slope attracted crowds from all over the county whenever it
snowed. We hoped to get there early enough to enjoy it for a few hours before
the younger kids and their families arrived. Imagine our disappointment
when we found the entrance barred by a wooden gate and a closed sign.
Undeterred, we drove a mile farther down the road, parked on the
shoulder, and hopped a fence. The winter sun turned the forbidden woods
into a secret ice palace. As we slipped through the trees, each cloud of breath
seemed to set off a clicking, as crystal branches, bowing beneath the weight
of ice, stirred against each other. We kept an awed silence.
Finally, we reached the hill. No footprints marred the perfect expanse
of its glassy whiteness. The top layer of ice had just begun to melt, making
the sleds and skateboard decks we had lugged from the car unnecessary.
Without a word, we took off, diving, jumping, sliding down the hill with
nothing between our bodies and the slick surface, the wind whipping away
our screams as we spun, and rolled, and hurtled downward. At last, we came
to a slow stop, piling against each other in a tangle of laughing wet limbs
at the bottom. Lapsing into silence, we lay there on the ice. Then someone
asked, “So . . . how do we get back up to the top?”

Honoring Our Pain for the World

There is no going back to that park or to that last stolen moment at the sled-
ding hill before college, career, and adulthood. With gratitude for what we
have comes an awareness of precariousness and threat. Yet contemporary
Western society encourages us to ignore, to avoid, or to distract ourselves
from feelings like anxiety and anger. Rather than deal with these feelings,
I check my phone, drink my coffee, watch a movie. However, as depth psy-
chologist James Hollis (1993) points out, these feelings (derived from the
Indo-European root “angh,” associated with painful constriction) are natural
and potentially powerful ways of acknowledging loss and motivating action.
Macy and Johnstone (2012) write that unblocking these feelings—meaning-
ful feedback about our situation—can release energy and insight. Scientists
studying dying aspens in Utah discovered that the entire forest is, in fact,
one being—perhaps among the largest and oldest on earth—connected by a
vast network of roots (Ettema, 2014). What if we are similarly connected?
Activism begins with compassion: a willingness to “suffer with” others.

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Inviting students to honor the pain of the world in writing, teachers

might encourage them to compose responses to these open-ended statements:

> When I imagine the world I will grow old in, it looks like . . .
> One of my worst fears about the future is . . .
> The feelings about the future that I carry with me are . . .

Sandbags
The skies in my neighborhood are sunny and cloudless, but the panic in the
air is palpable. A hurricane is approaching. Local authorities have delivered
a huge pile of sand to the county park near my house. My neighbors have
already stacked white sandbags in front of their doors and garages in antici-
pation of the floodwaters. I put two shovels in the trunk. Backing out of the
driveway, I run into our other car. Thankfully, the park is only a mile away,
and I arrive without further incident.
In front of the sand pile, prison inmates in stripes hand out bags and
zip ties. One looks me in the eye and nods. Men, women, families, people of
all ages surround me, shoveling furiously. As I stumble up the shifting slope,
a hand steadies me. The man next to me smiles. I notice he has no shovel
and hand him one of mine.
At first, we dig in silence. Then, he says, “Maybe it’s easier if we work
together?” I hold the bag, and he shovels. We carry a load to the car. As we
work, I admit I have Googled how to place sandbags effectively. He describes
buying plywood to board up his windows. “I’m more worried about my
family in Puerto Rico,” he tells me, pausing to check his phone. I relate my
car accident in the driveway, pointing to the gash on my bumper as we roll
another load into the trunk. Finally, the bags are filled. He hands me back
the shovel, and we shake hands. Then we hug. As I drive away, I realize we
have shared our fear, and our vulnerability, but not our names.

Seeing with New Eyes

We build many kinds of barriers to keep out the flood of feelings. Macy and
Johnstone (2012) write that “the turning” accompanies a shift in conscious-
ness. Ironically, such a shift can be difficult to perceive, even when society is
poised on its brink. One strategy they offer to overcome this nearsightedness
is to take a larger view of time by imagining the deep future, beyond the cur-
rent dilemmas. Imaginary hindsight, free from the constraints of immediate
obstacles, may increase our potential for creative thinking.

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The Haudenosaunee (or Iroquois, as colonists came to call them) have

a practice of considering the impact of a decision on the seventh generation—
those living approximately 140 years from now (Constitution of the Iroquois
Nations, 1450). While climate fiction (“cli-fi”) fans have long understood
the value of imagining the dystopian consequences of present ecological
problems, from superstorms to global warming, Macy and Johnstone (2012)
suggest that it can be equally valuable to imagine a world in which seemingly
insurmountable problems have already been solved.
Teachers might encourage students to “see with new eyes” by writing
to one of the following prompts from the imagined deep future:<BL>

> Present a slideshow about the creative invention that solved the
problem.
> Write a letter from the future describing what happened when the
problem was not addressed.
> Give a monument dedication speech on the anniversary of the day
when the problem was solved.

The Great Horse Manure Crisis of 1894

At our local summer leadership institute for the National Writing Project,
I ask the assembled writing teachers to compose a letter from the seventh
generation. Their “Dear Citizens of 2018” will describe not only the conse-
quences of our current actions but also the creative and unexpected responses
of future generations. As a model, I share a slightly different letter I have
composed:

Dear Citizens of 1894,

   In your time, horse-drawn transportation is the norm. New York has a
population of 100,000 horses, producing approximately 2.5 pounds of manure
a day. The Times newspaper has just predicted that, “In 50 years, every street
. . . will be buried under nine feet of manure.” Other cities across the globe are
facing a similar crisis. In 1898, you will hold the first modern international
urban planning conference, at which emissaries from across the world will
meet to discuss the situation. Unfortunately, no solution will be found, and
it may seem to you like urban civilization is doomed. But we know in our
time that, by 1918, the problem was mostly solved, as private automobiles—or
“cars,” as we have come to call them—replaced the horse-drawn carriage.
Those vehicles, which run on an internal combustion engine, burn a fuel
called gasoline that can be manufactured from black, oily petroleum pumped
out of the ground all over the planet. Unfortunately, a hundred years later,
we now have a similar problem: car exhaust from burning gasoline has so
contaminated the air that 4.2 million people a year are dying from causes

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connected to air pollution. Although cars may have led us again to the brink
of disaster, our history (and your future) gives us hope.

Following this example, I offer as a starting point for teachers’ letters the
compilation of environmental facts at http://ecocycle.org/ecofacts. After
we spend time writing, we share our drafts. Several teachers have written
about how much we throw away: 166 million tons of resources burned or
buried in landfills. One writer has imagined a future in which the 100 million
pieces of junk mail generated each year could be compacted into building
materials to create affordable housing. Like her, many of us have ended our
letters with similar admonitions that, “You already have the tools you need
to make a real change.”

Going Forth
That which we do not wish to countenance eventually mounts into piles too
big to ignore. In our efforts to take immediate action, we often overlook the
preceding steps—Coming from Gratitude, Honoring Our Pain for the World,
and Seeing with New Eyes. Another obstacle to activism is the small but
insistent voice that says, “No, that’s not going to work, because no one else
will care or understand.” Macy and Johnstone (2012) compare this voice to
the monsters that appear at the penultimate moment of the hero’s journey—
what Joseph Campbell (1949) called “threshold guardians.” Although these
threshold guardians can quell our efforts to make a difference, they can also
call forth our creativity. In 2012, high school student Ann Makosinki visited
a friend in the Philippines. This friend, unable to study or do homework at
night because of a lack of electric lighting, had failed her grade at school.
Makosinski (2016), an aspiring inventor, wondered if she could help her
friend by exploring the idea that heat generated by the human body could
be converted into light. In her TED Talk, Makosinski (who has also been
featured in Time and Forbes magazines) confesses, “To be honest, at first, I
didn’t think anyone would ever be interested in my project.” That project,
which won the Google Science fair, was a thermoelectric flashlight, powered
simply by the human hand.
Teachers might prompt students to “Go Forth” with their writing by
completing the following statements:

> “When I imagine myself working for change, the voices I hear are
saying . . .”
> “The negative voices are . . . and I can answer them by . . .”
> “The positive voices are . . . and they can help me to . . .”

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The Lighthouse
As a beginning teacher educator, I enjoyed the idea that my great-grandfather
had been a lighthouse keeper for 40 years. Though I had never been to the
lighthouse, I liked to imagine that I was carrying on his work, metaphori-
cally speaking, in preparing future English teachers. I even hung a framed
photo of that lighthouse over my desk at my first job. Years later, when I
was offered a position at another institution only an hour away from that
lighthouse, it felt like fate. But when I tried to visit the lighthouse, I could
not. Chemicals from discarded batteries that powered the light, buried for
years at its base, have seeped into the soil, and the earth on which it stands
is too polluted to allow grounds keeping, much less visitors. At first, I was
devastated. The image that had powered my idealism was corrupted. Then,
I realized that perhaps this, too, was part of the lesson: After all, what is a
lighthouse if not a warning for others? “But why me?” I wondered, “I’m just
an English teacher. What can I possibly do?”
The National Council of Teachers of English (2018) Resolution on
Climate Change reminds me that

[t]he stories we hear, see, read and share [about ecological sustainability]
involve all types of media and information: images, sounds, texts, ideas,
perspectives, and issues. We need to empathize with the people most af-
fected by climate change, rather than demonizing refugees or building
walls. We need to imagine consequences and possibilities, and take action
individually and collectively, locally and nationally.

Reading these words, I remember that, like the aspen tree, I am not alone,
but part of a vast network of readers, writers, and teachers. A society of
English educators. A member of the human community. A part of the more-
than-human world.
We are all connected. We are all part of the same story. It is a story
that remains to be written. This is how it begins.

References
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human world. New York: Pantheon.
Beach, R., Share, J., & Webb, A. (2017). Teaching climate change to adolescents:
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Journal, 100(3), 12–26.
Campbell, J. (1949). The hero with a thousand faces (3rd ed.). Novato, CA: New
World Library.

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Carson, R. (1962). Silent Spring (40th Anniversary). New York: Houghton Mifflin.
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Yagelski, R. P. (2005). Stasis and change: English education and the crisis of sustain-
ability. English Education, 37(4), 262–271.

Michael B. Sherry, PhD, is assistant professor of English

education at University of South Florida (mbsherry@usf.
edu). A grateful NCTE member since 2008, he studies
teacher response during whole-class discussions and to
students’ writing, and particularly how such responses
enable and constrain participation from students who
may be marginalized by traditional academic discourses.

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