No impact man documentary summary

Colin Beavan NO IMPACT MAN

Is it really possible to live eco-effectively? With No Impact Man, Colin Beavan tries to find out. He swears off plastic, goes

organic, becomes a bicycle nut, turns off his power, and generally tries to save the planet from environmental catastrophe while dragging his young daughter and his Prada-wearing wife along for the ride. He is No Impact Man, and this is his adventure: the surprising, delightful, deeply affecting story of one man’s decision to put his money where his mouth is and make zero net impact on the environment while trying to live an everyday life—in New York City, no less. That means no trash, no toxins in the water, no elevators, no subways, no products in packaging, no air- conditioning, no television, no toilet paper . . . What is it like to live a no-impact lifestyle? Can it catch on? Is it satisfying, or

exasperating, to live this way? Are we all doomed to be conspicuous consumers, or can our society reduce the barriers to sustainable living so it becomes as easy as unscrewing a lightbulb? These are the questions at the heart of this whole mad endeavor, and Colin Beavan hopes to show the rest of us that no-impact living is worthwhile—and richer, fuller, and more satisfying in the bargain.

Colin Beavan posts regularly at www.noimpactman.com. He lives in a ninth-floor apartment in New York City.

http://www.noimpactman.com
Praise for NO IMPACT MAN

“No Impact Man is a deeply honest and riveting account of the year in which Colin Beavan and his family attempted to do what most of us would consider impossible. What might seem inconvenient to the point of absurdity instead teaches lessons that all of us need to learn. We as individuals can take action to address important social problems. One person can make a difference.”

—Marion Nestle, author of What to Eat

“Colin Beavan has the disarming and uniquely remedial ability to make you laugh while making you feel like a swine, and what’s more, to make you not only want to, but to actually do something, about it.”

—Norah Vincent, author of Voluntary Madness

“There’s something of Thoreau in Colin Beavan’s great project—but a fully engaged, connected, and right-this-minute helpful version. We’re at a moment when we need to have as little impact in our own lives as possible—and as much impact in our political lives as we can possibly muster. Beavan shows how!”

—Bill McKibben, author of Deep Economy

“No Impact Man is a subversive book—not because it preaches a radical environmental agenda but because it gives the secret to personal rebellion against the bitterness of a man’s own compromises.”

—Arthur C. Brooks, author of Gross National Happiness

“Millions of Americans are now asking how their lifestyles are affecting the planet. If you’re one of them, Colin and Michelle’s remarkable odyssey through a year of shrinking their ecological footprint is an engrossing must-read. You’ll discover how what you eat, switch on, and throw out matters, but more important, how they found a much richer and happier life. Hop into the rickshaw for a hilarious, smartly informative, and deeply moving ride.”

—Juliet B. Schor, professor of sociology, Boston College, and author of the forthcoming Plenitude: Economics for an Age of Ecological Decline

“No Impact Man is an erudite, funny, and self-conscious Walden for our urban and postmodern age. Few of us will choose to replicate the experiment Colin Beavan took his family on, but we should be grateful to him for revealing the limits and possibilities for achieving happiness in an age of material excess.”

—Ted Nordhaus and Michael Shellenberger, authors of Break Through: From the Death of Environmentalism to the Politics of Possibility

ALSO BY COLIN BEAVAN

Operation Jedburgh: D-Day and America’s First Shadow War

Fingerprints: The Origins of Crime Detection and

the Murder Case That Launched Forensic Science

NO IMPACT MAN

COLIN BEAVAN FARRAR, STRAUS AND GIROUX NEW YORK

Farrar, Straus and Giroux

18 West 18th Street, New York 10011

Copyright © 2009 by Colin Beavan All rights reserved

Printed in the United States of America First edition, 2009

Grateful acknowledgment is made to Annie Leonard

for permission to reprint material from the Story of Stuff project.

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Beavan, Colin. No impact man : the adventures of a guilty liberal who attempts to save the planet,

and the discoveries he makes about himself and our way of life in the process / Colin Beavan.—1st ed. p. cm. Includes index. ISBN-13: 978-0-374-22288-8 (hardcover : alk. paper) ISBN-10: 0-374-22288-6 (hardccover : alk. paper) 1. Environmental protection—Citizen participation. 2. Sustainable living. 3.

Beavan, Colin—Homes and haunts. I. Title. TD171.7.B43 2009 333.72—dc22 [B]

2009010188

Designed by Jonathan D. Lippincott

www.fsgbooks.com

1 3 5 7 9 10 8 6 4 2

http://www.fsgbooks.com
To you, Michelle, with my deepest love and the hope that you will always write on walls

Our sages taught: A man should not move stones from his ground to public ground. A certain man was moving stones from his ground onto public ground when a pious

man found him doing so and said to him, “Fool, why do you move stones from ground which is not yours to ground which is

yours?” The man laughed at him. Some days later, the man had to sell his field, and when he was walking on that

public ground he stumbled over those stones. He then said, “How well did that pious man say to me, ‘Why do you move stones

from ground which is not yours to ground which is yours?’ ”

—Talmud Bavli, Masekhet Bava Kama 50b

Contents

1. How a Schlub Like Me Gets Mixed Up in a Stunt Like This 2. Day One and the Whole Thing Is a Big Mistake 3. What You Think When You Find Your Life in the Trash 4. If Only Pizza Didn’t Come on Paper Plates 5. How to Reduce Your Carbon Footprint and Anger Your Mom at the Same Time 6. The Cabbage Diet Saves the World 7. Conspicuous Nonconsumption 8. Click and the Lights Go Out 9. Trying to Do Enough Good to Outweigh the Harm Epilogue: Life After the Year Without Toilet Paper

Note on Production Appendix: You Can Make a Difference! Notes Acknowledgments Index

NO IMPACT MAN

ONE

How a Schlub Like Me Gets Mixed Up in a Stunt Like This

For one year, my wife, baby daughter, and I, while residing in the middle of New York City, attempted to live without making any net impact on the environment. Ultimately, this meant we did our best to create no trash (so no take-out food), cause no carbon dioxide emissions (so no driving or flying), pour no toxins in the water (so no laundry detergent), buy no produce from distant lands (so no New Zealand fruit). Not to mention: no elevators, no subway, no products in packaging, no plastics, no air conditioning, no TV, no buying anything new . . . But before we get into all that, I should explain what drove me to become No

Impact Man. To start, I’m going to tell a story that is more a confession, a pre- changing-of-my-ways stocktaking, a prodigal-son, mea-culpa sort of thing. The story starts with a deal I made with my wife, Michelle. By way of background: Michelle grew up all Daddy’s gold Amex and taxi

company charge account and huge boats and three country clubs and pledge allegiance to the flag. I, on the other hand, grew up all long hair to my shoulders, designer labels are silly, wish I was old enough to be a draft dodger and take LSD, alternative schooling, short on cash, save the whales, and we don’t want to be rich anyway because we hate materialism. Once, during a visit to my mother’s house in Westport, Massachusetts, Michelle lay

on the bed in my former bedroom and stared up at the ugly foam ceiling tiles. “You know, I grew up with much nicer ceilings than you did,” she said. That, her facial expression seemed to say, explained everything. My best friend, Tanner, meanwhile, once called me to tell me that his therapist had

said that he “despairs of Michelle and Colin’s differences.” Why Tanner’s therapist analyzed my marriage was a question best left for Tanner to explore in his next session, but the point was that Michelle and I had a lot to negotiate. And the story I’m telling here has to do with one of our negotiations. For my part, I agreed to put up with the cacophony that comes with Michelle

watching back-to-back episodes of Bridezilla, The Bachelor, and all the other trash- talk TV. I hate reality shows. Michelle conceded, on her shopping sprees, not to purchase anything made of or even trimmed with fur. That was the compromise. Michelle liked a little fur. Not long fur coats per se, but fur hats and fur linings and

stuff like that. Michelle was a Daily Candy girl, a Marc Jacobs white Stella handbag girl, a kind of Sex and the City’s Carrie Bradshaw grows up, gets married, and has a baby girl. On the other hand, call me a pussy, but I felt bad every time I saw one of those

raccoons or possums with their guts spilled out on the Palisades Parkway. I also felt bad for little animals getting killed for nothing but their skins. Yet I managed to exempt, back then, my leather shoes from my concern that

humanity puts vanity before kindness to animals. In the cold glare of my own I Want To Buy, my disdain for designer labels and all things consumerist became a little, shall we say, mushy. I was the type of guy who shopped for the fifty-two-inch television, then thought he was a rebel against consumerism because he bought the discounted floor model. I don’t mean to imply that I was a total do-nothing liberal. I did go to Pennsylvania

to canvass voters in the 2000 and 2004 elections. I made get-out-the-vote phone calls for MoveOn.org when they asked me to. I tried to adopt some sort of an attitude of service in my daily encounters and to generally avoid doing harm. I volunteered at the World Trade Center site after 9/11. I even prayed for George Bush, on the premise that hating him just created a hateful world. The question was, given the state of world affairs, whether I shouldn’t have been

asking more of myself. A few months after our TV-fur negotiation, Michelle got offered a brand-new,

thousand-dollar, white-fox shawl by a friend whose father is a furrier in Michelle’s hometown, Minneapolis. It’s free and the fox is already dead, went Michelle’s reasoning. It’s not one fox, it’s ten, went mine. I’ve already suffered your free-basing bad

television, and we have a deal about this, I said. But those are your standards, replied Michelle. Then came her trump card: I want to

discuss it at couple’s therapy. Not that what we actually went to was couple’s therapy. What really happened was,

I would drop by sometimes during one of Michelle’s sessions with her own therapist. Anyway, I trundled along to the Upper East Side office, and Michelle explained the situation. Free fox shawl, on the one hand. No fur, on the other—which is Colin’s standard. Why, Michelle asked, should I have to adhere to his ethic? When the therapist turned to me and said, “Colin?” I surprised both of them by

saying that Michelle could buy all the fur she wants. Except, I said, there’s one

http://MoveOn.org
condition to my releasing her from our deal—and here’s the part where I look like a jerk—namely, that Michelle read out loud certain passages of a PETA brochure about the fur trade that I’d highlighted in green. “I can read them when I get home,” Michelle said. “Nope,” I said. “The deal is, if you want to renege on our fur deal, you read it out

loud, here.” Sport that she is, Michelle grabbed the papers, cleared her throat, and began to read.

Two results came of all this: First, Michelle decided that she didn’t want to buy fur anymore because she actually has the biggest heart known to humankind and because we are nowhere near so different on the inside as we seem on the outside. Second— and here’s the point of the story—I showed myself to be a smug little jerk. I had mobilized my intellectual and persuasive resources to get someone else to change her behavior, and remained, I saw, utterly complacent about my own. It’s true that I had occasionally tried to make a difference in the world, but I was

coming to think my political views had too often been about changing other people, like Michelle, and too seldom about changing myself. I made the mistake of thinking that condemning other people’s misdeeds somehow

made me virtuous. I’d become, I realized, a member of that class of liberals who allowed themselves to glide by on way too few political gestures and lifestyle concessions and then spent the rest of their energy feeling superior to other people who supposedly don’t do as much. A year or so later, news about global warming started coming out. I mean, it’s been

out for twenty years, but somehow it hadn’t entered my liberal consciousness. We can’t maintain this way of life, the scientists said, the world can’t sustain it. The ice caps will melt, the sea levels will rise, there will be droughts—or, in short, the planet will be done for and millions of people will suffer. The countries of the world had negotiated the Kyoto Protocol to the United Nations

Framework on Climate Change, assigning mandatory targets for the reduction of greenhouse gases to signatory nations. But the United States, a signatory to the protocol, as well as the world’s largest producer of greenhouse gases, refused to ratify it.

I made the mistake of thinking that condemning other people’s misdeeds somehow made me virtuous.

What had I done in light of our country’s deaf ear to environmental concerns? Well, if it rained torrentially, I would say gloomily to whoever was listening, “I blame George Bush for this strange weather.” If in conversation someone said global warming was just a theory, I’d say, “Actually, the scientists say it’s a fact,” and I’d

also get a really angry look on my face to show just how adamant I was. And if it was so hot out that I felt the need to turn on both air conditioners, I’d sometimes even feel despondent for a moment or two about the fact that I was contributing to the problem.

Cut to 2006. At the age of forty-two, I have a little girl, Isabella, who is nearly one. We live on lower Fifth Avenue in Greenwich Village. It is January but seventy degrees outside. The middle of winter, and joggers run past in shorts. Young women from the nearby NYU dorm saunter by my building in tank tops. I’m on the street. I’m walking our dog, Frankie. People around me are happy but I

am not. Instead, I’m worried. I put the key in the front door of my building. I walk through the granite-floored lobby. I step into the elevator. The operator, Tommy, an older gray-haired man from Greece, says, “It’s too warm, no?” “Yeah, well, imagine how warm it would be if there was such a thing as global

warming,” I say. I was being sarcastic, of course. People back then still argued about whether global

warming existed. Not me. This was around the time when I had begun to feel really ill at ease. What I read in the news only confirmed, I believed, what I could already feel in my bones. Summer seemed to toggle straight into winter, and then back to summer—the long

fall and spring seasons of my childhood had disappeared. I’d witnessed, that December, a winter storm in which thunder clapped violently and lightning flashed the white blanket of snow into eerie green. Never in my recollection of northeastern winters had there ever been thunder and lightning in a snowstorm. Tommy chuckled at my sarcastic remark. He threw the lever forward and the

elevator lurched upward. After all, what could we do? For the last few months I had traveled around, discussing a book I wrote about a

secret Allied operation in France during World War II. For the last few months, in other words, I’d spent my time talking about sixty years’ worth of yesterdays when I was really scared to death of what was happening today. Here’s what was on my mind when I rode the elevator that day: I’d read that the Arctic ice was melting so fast that polar bears were drowning as

they tried to swim what had become hundreds of miles between ice floes in search of food. Researchers knew this because they found their limp white bodies bobbing on the waves in the middle of the sea. Worse: sometimes, too, desperate in their starvation, the polar bears cannibalized

each other’s young. We burn too many fossil fuels, the sky gets blanketed with carbon dioxide and other greenhouse gases, the planet warms up, the ice caps melt, the polar bears can’t get to their food, they eat each other’s babies.

You’ve heard it all before. But back then, in 2006, this was news, at least to me. What really filled me with despair, though, was that I didn’t believe that the way of

life that was steadily wrecking the planet even made us happy. It would be one thing if we woke up the morning after a big blowout party, saw that we’d trashed our home, but could at least say we had had a rip-roaring good time. But if I had to generalize, I would say that, on average, the 6.5 billion people who share this globe are nowhere near as happy as they could be. Leaving aside the people who have severely limited access to food and clean

drinking water, so many people I knew, both in New York and elsewhere in the world’s go-fast consumer culture, were dissatisfied with the lives they had worked to get—the lives they were supposed to want. Many of us work so hard that we don’t get to spend enough time with the people

we love, and so we feel isolated. We don’t really believe in our work, and so we feel prostituted. The boss has no need of our most creative talents, and so we feel unfulfilled. We have too little connection with something bigger, and so we have no sense of meaning. Those of us lucky enough to be well compensated for these sacrifices get to distract

ourselves with expensive toys and adventures—big cars and boats and plasma TVs and world travel in airplanes. But while the consolation prizes temporarily divert us from our dissatisfaction, they never actually take it away. And, to top it all off, I thought in the elevator on that unseasonably warm day, not

only have so many of us discovered that we’ve been working our years away to maintain a way of life that we don’t really like, but we are waking up to the fact—I hope—that this same way of life is killing the planet. Thanks to global warming, we hear, the planet is facing, among other things, plagues of malaria, monsoons and hurricanes with unprecedented power and frequency, and a rise in sea level that will cause widespread destruction of people’s homelands.

Back on that summery day in the middle of winter, I seemed to be hitting bottom.

What things to have to think about. Back on that summery day in the middle of winter, I seemed to be hitting bottom.

At first I thought it was about the state of the world. Yet I had an inkling, as I rode in the elevator, that that wasn’t it. I’d been complaining to anyone who would listen, telling people that we lived in an

emergency. Yet, as much as I complained, I lived and acted as though everything was normal. I just led my usual workaday life. Wake up, take my daughter, Isabella, to the babysitter, spend the day writing, pick her up, watch TV, start all over. I didn’t feel I

could do anything about world problems. After all, if the government wasn’t doing anything, what could I do? Write another history book? But is that what I wanted from myself? Is that what I was willing to accept? That I

could be in a state of despair and do absolutely nothing about it? Was I really hitting bottom with the state of the world? Or was I hitting bottom with my state of self- imposed helplessness? For some reason, that warm winter day in the elevator, I suddenly realized that my

problem might not actually be the state of the world. My problem was my inaction. I was worried sick about something and doing nothing about it. I wasn’t sick of the world. I was sick of myself. I was sick of my comfortable and easy pretension of helplessness. Tommy brought the elevator to a stop at the ninth floor, where I live. It was just an

elevator ride. It was just a couple of seconds. It was just a day when it is seventy degrees when it should be thirty. But I suddenly had these questions: Am I really helpless? Is it true that a guy like me can’t make a difference? Or am I

just too lazy or frightened to try?

Winter leapfrogged into summer—another missing spring—and I had lunch with my literary agent, Eric Simonoff. We went to Beacon in midtown Manhattan, where lots of publishing types meet. Glasses clinked. Colleagues nodded. We were there to discuss my next book project. “I can’t write history anymore,” I tell him. “Don’t tell me you want to write novels,” he says. Eric is accustomed to helping people like me to eke out a living from our writing. “No, I don’t want to write novels,” I say, and then I launch into my dinner-party

rant about global warming. I inform poor Eric, who was simply trying to enjoy his lunch, that while reports

pour in exclaiming the urgency of our environmental problems, government and big business move only at a snail’s pace, if at all. We need, say the urgent reports, to reduce greenhouse gas emissions by 80 percent at the very least by 2050 in order to prevent global warming from spiraling out of control. Instead of acting, companies like Exxon use stealth PR tactics to discredit the organizations that try to warn us. Meanwhile, politicians try to “reposition global warming as a theory, rather than fact.”

A sailboat ride west from Hawaii would soon have you crashing through a gigantic patch of floating plastic garbage, twice the size of the

continental United States.

I doubted, back then, that a Democrat in the White House would move a whole hell of a lot faster on the environment. In the voting booth, whether you pull the red handle or the blue handle, you always pull a big-business handle. And big business wasn’t exactly filling the politicians’ war chests with millions of do-something-about- global-warming dollars. “What are we doing to our planet, Eric?” I cried, and continued my rant. A sailboat ride west from Hawaii would soon have you crashing through a gigantic

patch of floating plastic garbage, twice the size of the continental United States, that swirls around itself in the middle of the Pacific Ocean. Or you could go fishing and come up emptyhanded in one of 14,000 Canadian lakes that no longer support marine life, thanks to acid rain. Or try going for a walk in the forest, hoping to see some birds but instead coming face-to-face with a big yellow bulldozer in the 32 million acres of woodland we chop down around the world every year to make toilet paper and disposable coffee cups. Then there’s what we’re doing to ourselves. Here in New York City, for example,

one in four kids who live in the South Bronx suffers from asthma, resulting largely from the exhaust fumes of trucks that haul away New Yorkers’ trash. Meanwhile, experts find that an array of health problems, including lung disease, infertility, Parkinson’s disease, breast cancer, prostate cancer, and childhood autism, to name just a few, are related to the unwholesome amounts of toxic chemicals we spew into our air, water, and soil. So it’s not that while trashing the planet the human race is having a party. Quite the

opposite. We feel a malaise and a guilt that at another time in history might have motivated action, but that this time seems instead to be coupled with a terrible sense of helplessness.

My point, I told Eric, is that I want my work to align with my values. I want to write about what’s important. I want to help change minds. I want, I told Eric, to find a way to encourage a society that emphasizes a little less self-indulgence and a little more kindness to one another and to the planet. Here’s what Eric had to say: “The way you talk about it is a bummer. It’s a drag. It’s not that you’re wrong, but

how will I be able to convince a publisher that people will spend twenty-four ninety- five on a book that tells them how screwed up they are? And even if anybody wanted to hear it, why would they want to hear it from you, a history writer with no credentials in this area? “Have you considered writing novels?” Erik joked.

As I opened the door to my apartment that afternoon, I felt an unnatural rush of cool air. I knew Eric was right. If I was the type of person who left his air conditioners on when no one was home, not only did I not have the professional authority to talk about the environment, I didn’t have the moral authority, either. It was the whole Michelle-and-the-fur scenario all over again. It was as though I wanted to change other people but was unwilling or unable to look in the mirror. If I was still a student, I’d have marched against myself.

There is a Zen koan that captures the fix I was in. As the koan goes, long ago in China, a stray cat wandered into Zen master Nam Cheon’s monastery. Sometimes the cat would cuddle up in the laps of the monks who lived in the east residence and sometimes in the laps of the monks who lived in the west residence. Instead of taking care of the cat together, the monks from the east and west halls became jealous of each other. “We love the cat more than you, so it should live with us.” “No, we know how to take care of the cat better. It should stay with us!” One day, the argument broke out in the middle of the dharma room, where the

monks were supposed to be meditating. Finally, Zen master Nam Cheon stormed into the room. He picked up the cat, held a knife to its throat, and said, “You monks. Give me one true word of love for this cat and I’ll save it. If you cannot, I will kill it.” Nam Cheon was testing the monks. Did any of them really love the cat, or did they

just want to win the argument? Were they willing to demonstrate real responsibility for its life, or had they become too distracted by their fight for control of it? As the story goes, none of the monks said or did anything. They were all still trying to figure out how to prove the other side wrong. So Nam Cheon slit the cat’s throat. What began to worry me was that I and the political system I participated in were a

lot like those monks in the dharma room when it came to the health of the planet. Never exerting much energy toward anything but winning the argument. Too rarely taking any real action. Forgetting that the proverbial cat’s life was at stake while we argued over who owned it.

This brings me back to the question I asked regarding my own progress in the arena of kindness and restraint: Am I self-evolved or just self-righteous? I had begun with the idea of trying to encourage a little less self-indulgence and a

little more kindness in our society. Now, I realized, maybe I ought not to be writing a book about changing other people. Maybe I ought first to worry about changing

myself. I called Eric and made a date for another lunch.