Wednesday, July 13, 2022 // The Statement — 5

This year, I was more enraged 
than inspired when Earth Day rolled 
around. Scrolling through Instagram 
and swiping through stories with 
silly stickers made my blood boil 
more than it made my heart flutter. 
Comments like “love you Mother 
Earth” and “give nature a chance” 
made my eyebrows furl and my smile 
turn low and flat — what a vapid, if 
not intentionally shallow, attempt to 
“celebrate” Earth Day, I thought.
Photos of beaches and bikinis 
and tree swings in grass meadows 
and the shade that all the oaks and 
willows and birches provide — all 
coated with a saturated filter and 
cropped to fit one’s Instagram theme. 
These posts were nothing more 
than an inane attempt to celebrate our 
Mother Earth, as if what she needs 
more of is fruitless appreciation, 
rather than fierce protection. We 
shouldn’t be hitting “post” as much 
as we should be gnawing our teeth 
at 
incompetent 
and 
ineffectual 
legislators who, at every turn, deflect 
their responsibility as lawmakers. 
For me, every day is Earth Day, and 
though I am far from a saint, I spend 
each day reflecting on my actions 
and re-evaluating whether I am 
doing my best — not just on April 22. 
And though I miss the flavor of 
bacon on my breakfast sandwiches 
and the sweet saltiness of salami 
slices, and despite how difficult it is 
to cut my showers short and make 
my feet work for my destination 
rather than the gas pedal, I do it not 
for the benefit of myself, but for the 
benefit of our planet — Earth.
Because, 
believe 
it 
or 
not, 
sustainability 
is 
not 
always 
aesthetically pleasing — think about 

how gross compost actually is. 
Gritty, individual actions are often 
not as “Instagrammable” as posting 
pretty landscapes is — they’re 
not 
concerned 
with 
aesthetics, 
or any particular social rewards. 
And, 
expressing 
gratitude 
for 
something given is way easier than 
reciprocating said kindness. 
Because sustainability sells
Yet somehow, much of what we 
call sustainability — that which we 
define as environmentalism — has 
come to garner a particular look. Not 
necessarily a fad, but something of 
the sort. As organizations ponder on 
how to implement sustainability into 
their business models, I can’t help 
but feel like brands are choosing to 
do so for selfish interests. Whether 
it be for increased profit margins, 
more positive consumer perceptions 
or 
access 
to 
new 
markets, 
environmentalism has become a tool 
of capitalism, rather than a weapon 
against it.
And though their actions aren’t 
always necessarily performed in 
good faith, some companies do try 
and make a real effort to integrate 
sustainability into their business 
models. 
Others, 
if 
not 
many, 
understand that nothing sells better 
in 2022 than environmentalism, or, 
the appearance of it. 
SHEIN, 
the 
infamous 
fast-
fashion clothing giant with brutal 
working conditions, continues to 
hold commitments to protecting 
the environment, supporting the 
community 
and 
empowering 
entrepreneurs. 

By Valerija Malashevich, Statement Columnist

By Shannon Stocking, 
Statement Contributor

Land Acknowledgment: As the 
author of this piece and a frequent 
visitor 
of 
the 
Great 
Lakes, 
I 
acknowledge that many of the cities, 
and landmarks discussed in this piece 
reside on traditional and ancestral 
indigenous lands. I encourage readers 
to explore the cultures, traditions and 
history of the 20 (recorded) tribes that 
resided around The Great Lakes in 
the past and advocate for the tribes 
that remain around the lakes and in 
Michigan. I stand with the Indigenous 
tribes who have faced prejudiced, 
unfair and violent treatment and I 
stand against the colonization of these 
tribes and advocate for a decolonized 
future. 
For anyone born or raised in the 
state of Michigan, the Great Lakes 
are an essential part of childhood, 
education and growth. In the state of 
Michigan, you’re never further than 
85 miles from one of the Great Lakes, 
allowing these majestic wonders, 
wrapped around our mitten state, to 
closely intertwine with each aspect 
of our lives.
These freshwater wonders have 
become increasingly important at 
a national level as droughts across 
the country have caused Great Lakes 
waters to be used as far as Arizona. 
Because of the lake’s abundance of 
resources and temperate climate, 
they’re often viewed as a place 
of climate refuge, immune to the 
impending changes in our natural 
environment — but this is far from 
true. 

Our increased reliance on the 
natural resources of the Great Lakes 
has instead put our country and state 
at more risk. Each lake plays a vital 
role in our state’s economy, natural 
resources and tourism industry, 
which will make their deterioration 
even more traumatic. 
Beyond the economic concerns, 
climate change threatens education 
and exposure to the natural world 
for generations to come, stripping the 
staple family trip to Lake Michigan 
and replacing kayaking on Lake 
Huron with a flight to somewhere far 
away. 
As students of the state, we need 
to recognize the importance of these 
lakes to our economy and actively 
work to promote the conservation 
and preservation of these natural 
wonders. 
Huron
When I was 16, my parents agreed 
to let my best friend and I embark on 
our first camping trip alone together. 
Despite our best efforts to convince 
our parents to approve a trip to the 
Traverse City area, the four-hour 
drive didn’t sit well with them and 
we compromised, agreeing on a small 
town called Port Austin. We packed 
up the faithful Volkswagen in the 
mid-July heat and took off to the 
crooked thumb of Michigan. With 
the exception of the lack of vegan 
cuisine, our small town proved to 
be perfect — welcoming us in with 
a flurry of wildlife preservations, 
lakeshores and hiking trails that lay 
relatively empty despite it being the 
peak of tourist season.
On our third day, we packed up 

camp, wrapped up sandwiches and 
rented kayaks in preparation for a 
three-mile paddle to the crown jewel 
of the area. The trek out proved to be 
an unpleasant combination of rocky 
waves and an uncomfortable amount 
of seasickness. But after about an 
hour, we rounded the cliffs, and the 
crown jewel of the thumb appeared. 
Mushroom Rock, nestled into the 
rocky cliffs of Lake Huron, emerged 
into our view as a majestic inverted 
pyramid that erupted 40 feet out 
of the water and stayed there. The 
impressive formation, we later read, 
was thanks to thousands of years of 
erosion from Lake Huron’s unique 
intensity of water level fluctuations. 
In 2020, The Chicago Tribune 
covered the turbulent changes in 
water levels that have taken place 
over the last 10 years across Lake 
Huron’s Shoreline. Due to the 
absence of dams, and its connection 
to Lake Michigan by the Straits of 
Mackinac, both Lake Huron and 
Michigan are prone to more extreme 
fluctuations in water levels than the 
other Great Lakes. In the Tribune’s 
reporting, they found that the water 
level fluctuations were increasing 
in both frequency and intensity. In 
2013, Lake Huron reached a record 
low water level of 576 ft. at its deepest 
point, leaving docks and boats 
surrounded by mud and costing the 
coastline communities thousands of 
dollars. Just six years later, the water 
level rose six ft. clocking in at 581.9 
ft, the seasonal record high for the 
Michigan-Huron basin.

Environmentalism 
doesn’t have to be 
Instagrammable

Environmentalism 
doesn’t have to be 
Instagrammable

Design by Abby Schreck

Read more at michigandaily.com

The Great Lakes are not a 
climate refuge, and here’s why

The Great Lakes are not a 
climate refuge, and here’s why

Design by Reid Graham

Read more at michigandaily.com

