Jeff Lagasse
If it were easier for people to migrate, we’d be doing it all the time. Sure, there are the “snowbirds,” those lucky ducks who spent part of the year where blizzards are just a theoretical concept. That requires money and planning, though. We can’t just take off whenever we want to, because not only can’t we fly, but we’re grounded in other ways – we need homes and supermarkets and convenient access to socks. We’re mired in our homo sapien ways.
But there’s a chance that migration may become a necessity.
I’m talking permanent migration here, the kind that could very well be heralded by climate change. At this point, the reality of a changing climate should be taken as an absolute, and the human role in it regarded with nearly as much certainty. The steep and sudden climb in global temperatures corresponds exactly with the beginning of the industrial revolution, and the greenhouse gases we’ve pumped into the atmosphere since that time tally perfectly with the particulants measured in today’s carbonous, throat-clogging air. The few remaining deniers have no credible case left. That leaves two questions for us to ponder.
One: What do we do about it?
Two: What happens when we inevitably do nothing?
Because let’s face it – we’ll probably do nothing, or at least nothing that helps. The world’s largest economies, the United States and China, have a financial interest in preserving the status quo; investments in renewable energy may ultimately keep the planet habitable for human life, but it hurts various industries’ bottom lines in the short term, and basic survival has historically taken a back seat to quarterly fiscal reports. This has already had an impact on habitation, as islanders living near the broiling equator have seen their communities flooded by rising sea levels. They’re fleeing for higher, cooler ground, and in about 200 years they may find what they’re looking for in places like Siberia and northern Canada. Ever get a vacation postcard from the Northwest Territories? Your great-greatgrandchildren might.
The goal here, however, isn’t to shame. It’s to consider the possible consequences.
There are the societal ramifications, obviously. Let’s say the worst-case scenario develops and the equator becomes totally uninhabitable, a celestial waistband of brown grass and empty McDonald’s parking lots. That means a whole lot of people moving out of Brazil and Thailand and pitching their tents in locales such as Norway and Russia; by 2216 they’ll be resort countries shaded by palm fronds and crawling with sunburned poolside attendants named Chip. This is significant, because a ridiculous number of people live in these equatorial countries, and if the climate forces them to leave, they’ll be competing with the natives of cooler spots for space and resources. Overpopulation is already a huge problem, and its effects will only be compounded if there’s less livable land area on the planet.
Besides that, the effects on local culture could potentially be unsettling. Some nations are accepting of disparate cultures. Some aren’t. Given the current kerfuffle over immigration policy, our own United States seems to qualify as a culturally intolerant country – our love for spicy tacos and Kung Pao chicken notwithstanding. It’s ironic, given America’s status as a patchwork quilt of heritage, that there’s such a deep resistance to outside influence and ideas. But it exists, and it’s prevalent in states like Maine, which are historically isolationist by nature. I mean hell, Mainers consider even transplants from neighboring New Hampshire to be “from away.” It’s hard to fathom the number of heads that would explode if the state is overrun by refugees from Columbia, seeking cooler breezes and delicious whoopie pies.
While that’s a lot to consider, the dramatic facelift to the world economy is the dark star on top of this ugliest of Christmas trees. I’m not an economist, but I play one in a column, and I’m guessing it can’t be healthy in the short run to see northern countries’ populations triple while places like Venezuela are left as empty as a Quizno’s.
Since we’re so close to Canada, let’s prognosticate a hypothetical future scenario for our syruploving neighbors. In a possible 2216, oranges grow in Toronto. Hundreds of thousands of ex- Argentinians crowd the cigar shops and red-light hovels of Montreal, their flesh erupting in goosebumps as air conditioning cools their bodies. Denizens of Vancouver get up early to start their cars, hoping for a less-than-sweltering commute to work. And with soil now suited to diverse agriculture, Canada becomes one of the world’s breadbaskets, producing food for the few people left in the simmering sun of a once-great civilization. The 12 people still living in Georgia drink orange juice made in Edmonton. The world is topsy-turvy, the switch too sudden, and even the countries with huge population booms are buckling under the weight of massive change. And somehow, Pauly Shore is making movies again. Bedlam.
There are those who would scoff, dismiss my climate worry as overblown and call me an “alarmist.” To which I would respond: Of course I am! It’s an alarming situation. Who in their right mind wouldn’t be?
And you know who’s laughing? The birds. They have no bags to pack. No expenses to burden them. No flat-screen televisions to stuff into the hatchbacks of their Hyundai Accents, no immigration forms to fill out. They just move. When humanity does nothing, those left behind will glance at the sky and say to themselves, “If only I could fly.”
— Jeff Lagasse is an editor at a Portland media company who’s already working on a prototype for jetpacks that run on industrial smog. To send him seed money for his invention, contact him at jelagasse@gmail.com.
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