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Someone in the back of the class muttered what I assumed many others were also thinking.
And then some dude at a bar says climate change can’t be real.
My father refuses to see me, speak with me, to have me in his life.
In the last course I taught at a state university, 2013, most of my students were also working two jobs to help support their families.
She texts me at 7am, says she really needs to talk, sincerely needs my opinion on something. “And it’s too long to text.”
She takes a break from hating social media whenever CNN airs new footage of a few hundred people looting and breaking windows.
When the local newspaper reports that our winters will be getting consistently colder and longer as climate change progresses, I cringe.
She said my blog stats are amazing when you consider I’m writing about things most people don’t even want to think about.
There are mornings I wake up to nausea, nightmares burning sour in my stomach, doubts about my choices shouting from a groggy brain.
The daily temperatures are finally rising. The sun is shining warm more often than not.
To all the health-conscious, yoga-practicing, vegan-cuisine-eating, upper-middle class white people who move to Jersey City, NJ, for cheap rent and a more “down-to-earth life.”
“This is one of the many reasons,” I tell my former students students, whenever they visit, “why I’m convinced we’re doomed as a species.”