The 15-year-old me was a fan of screaming punk bands, depressing poetry, and devastating my innocent, Star Trek-loving parents with my precocious cynicism.
I wore black on the outside, because black was how I felt on the inside.
These days, instead of wishing I was never born, I write for Grist — which is turning 15 this year. I cover all the idealists I used to judge: the activists, politicians, lawyers, students, and business types who are fighting for things like clean water and air and an atmospheric system that does not become so full of carbon that it brings down environmental calamity on all of us.
15-year-old me would almost certainly judge today-me. But I have a much better time, so there.
Now Grist is turning 15 and we’re writing a (fortunately less angsty) poetry of our own, weaving all the important green stories of the day into a movement for change.
There are just five days left of our fundraising drive, and your participation counts. Will you celebrate Grist’s 15 years of work with a gift of $15?
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