Rethinking Personal Sacrifice

Abstract

Conventional wisdom suggests that addressing environmental ills will require wealthy societies to sacrifice their standards of living. But that depends on how you view sacrifice.

Addressing awesome environmental challenges, including climate change, requires many types of knowledge. Because their impact is a biophysical one, we require the knowledge of natural scientists. Because the built environment is central to humanity's impact, we require the knowledge of designers, planners, and engineers. Because production and consumption is driven by economic relations and response to public policy, we require the knowledge of economists and policy analysts. But above and beyond these, we require the political judgment to connect environmental concerns with people's lives, values, and preoccupations in a way that stimulates effective action. When cultivating these connections, environmentalists can be effective social critics–ones who successfully motivate social change. When they fail to do so, environmentalists succeed only in preaching to the choir, or simply layering one more source of anxiety onto the shoulders of an already busy and overburdened populace.

A while ago, my colleague Mike Maniates of Allegheny College drew attention to a common response he noticed when speaking to sympathetic audiences about environmental problems: Yes, they'd agree, there are tremendous challenges. But, they'd continue, any meaningful effort to address them–to mitigate climate change, say, and move toward environmental sustainability–will require considerable sacrifice by Americans and citizens in other wealthy consumer societies. And that, many conclude, is just not going to happen. Most people won't sacrifice–they're too self-satisfied, apathetic, or ignorant to change willingly.

I often hear versions of this lament among my students and others I speak with; I suspect it will sound (all too) familiar to many readers as well. It's the basis for what we have come to refer to as the political stickiness of sacrifice-talk. This despairing talk tends to shut down meaningful deliberation: By asserting that popular values are the source of the problem, solutions seem to require the Sisyphean task of either transcending or transforming these values. By contrast, effective social criticism relies upon precisely what this assertion denies–the possibility of working with popular values, and drawing upon resources within our culture, to promote meaningful democratic action. For environmentalists, to speak effectively to diverse citizens–to be effective social critics–they must unstick themselves from this problematic lament. Doing so requires careful attention to the confusing and often-confused grammar of sacrifice itself.

When environmentalists despair that citizens of wealthy consumer societies won't willingly sacrifice their creature comforts or standard of living to conserve resources, the question that typically emerges is: How do we get them to sacrifice? The answer typically entails turning to experts and talking about catastrophe. Scientists are respected and know what needs to be done, the thinking goes; so maybe appeals to their expertise, along with techniques of persuasion and manipulation, might convince people to do what is necessary–to sacrifice? If not, well, showing people how bad things are going to get will help them to see the light and start to sacrifice.

But by implying an enlightened “we” who are apart from those who behave in environmentally destructive ways, such tactics come across as preachy and paternalistic, and are more likely to alienate than to motivate. After all, in a wide variety of other contexts (the “war on terror” comes to mind), flaunting “expert” knowledge or warning about catastrophe has been a reliable basis for top-down, coercive political action. Despair feeds this sort of response; by contrast, strengthening democratic impulses and institutions requires hope. My point is emphatically not to question scientific knowledge of environmental problems. It is to challenge those who consciously or otherwise equate this knowledge with a strategy for change that can effectively address these problems.

A different and more alluring response to the political stickiness of sacrifice is to argue that, actually, it's unnecessary. Maybe we just need to screw in a few fluorescent light bulbs and bring a canvas bag to the supermarket. I'm not sure anyone really believes that is enough. But many do argue that unleashing the power of technological innovation and free markets will solve problems on their own.

For example, in Natural Capitalism, coauthors Paul Hawken, Amory Lovins, and L. Hunter Lovins offer an especially enthusiastic account along these lines: “Imagine … a world where cities have become peaceful and serene because cars and buses are whisper quiet, vehicles exhaust only water vapor, and parks and greenways have replaced unneeded urban freeways. … Industrialized countries have reduced resource use by 80 percent while improving the quality of life. … Is this the vision of a utopia? In fact, the changes described here could come about in the decades to come as the result of economic and technological trends already in place.”1

Tellingly, the authors characterize this happy future as not merely possible, but the product of “economic and technological trends already in place.” In that sense, their extraordinary optimism makes any talk of sacrifice irrelevant; no real effort is needed when we are already on track to solve the challenges that we face.

If one is comforted by this optimism, then there is little reason to consider sacrifice. Our time would be better spent learning to be better business people–identifying effective innovators, promoting efficiency, and marketing “green” products that accommodate growing consumption. Yet this view smacks of wishful thinking. Clearly it is important to recognize opportunities within the marketplace for technological innovation, but that alone won't solve our problems.

So, if trying to convince people to sacrifice is counterproductive and assuming we'll never need to is naïve, then we need to find another way through this thicket. Rather than call for sacrifice, we might begin by calling out sacrifice and the myriad ways in which it is already present in our daily lives.

The premise that most people won't sacrifice unless coerced reflects an assumption that sacrifice is self-abnegation; performed by heroes or saints, but not by ordinary people. I want to challenge this assumption, arguing instead that making sacrifices is, in fact, a familiar part of everyday life and can be consistent with an inclusive sense of our self-interest, though it can also be foisted upon us unjustly.

Take, for example, cars. Given that automobile usage accounts for a sizeable percentage of fossil fuel consumption and greenhouse gas emissions, no serious effort to curb climate change can ignore it. Yet simply raising the issue is easily characterized as a call for Americans to sacrifice personal mobility. Instead, we should recognize that driving is not always a choice, but often a necessity due to structural factors including the geographic distribution of residential and commercial spaces, the absence of convenient public transportation, and impediments to walking or bicycling. Indeed, for many–the young, elderly, poor, and disabled–access and mobility is already being sacrificed within this system. One recent study found that elderly non-drivers become increasingly isolated, making 15 percent fewer trips to the doctor and 65 percent fewer trips for social, family, and religious activities than those who drive.2

By clearly acknowledging the sacrifices people already make–and by recognizing what sacrifices accompany the things we think of as conveniences and luxuries, we can open up space for a more balanced consideration of whatever policy is being debated.

As for those of us who do drive (and own a vehicle), recent studies correlate living in more car-dependent communities with poorer health and greater weight gain. Moreover, when we are stuck in rush-hour traffic, when we have to take time off of work to transport an elderly parent to the doctor, when we shuttle our children to and from school, friends, and sports, it should become clear that while we may make such everyday sacrifices willingly, they are sacrifices nonetheless. The reason they are rarely recognized as such is because dependence on cars comes to appear inevitable; it is embedded in the very structure and organization of our communities. Where political choices lead to a different communal structure–one that makes it convenient to walk, bike, and use public transportation–then these sacrifices become both more visible and less necessary.

We do not live in the best of all possible worlds; sacrifice exists all around us. By clearly acknowledging the sacrifices people already make–and by recognizing what sacrifices accompany the things we think of as conveniences and luxuries, social critics can open up space for a more balanced consideration of whatever policy is being debated. Rather than seeing their task as convincing people to sacrifice–or defending themselves against the charge–they can begin by collaborating with groups whose present sacrifices would be alleviated and establish a dialogue about how changes might be achieved in a way that trades certain luxuries or conveniences for other gains in quality of life. The point, then, is to neither call for sacrifice nor avoid talk of sacrifice, but to open up a far broader conversation about the choices and challenges we all face.

In an analysis of the perceptions of working class white males in the United States, political theorist William Connolly allows us to see the difference between recognizing sacrifice and calling for it. Discussing this group's resistance to the environmentalism emergent during the 1960s, he argues: “Environmental programs sacrifice luxuries of consumption most available to the working class, [so] … they threaten one of the compensatory outlets available to it.”3 Yet for these men, resistance to environmentalism was not rooted in resistance to sacrifice per se. In fact, Connolly argues that an “ideology of sacrifice” was already central to their identity.

“Their dignity was primarily defined by their role as ‘head of household,’ their freedom by a willingness to sacrifice personal pleasures now to insulate their spouses from the rigors of the workplace and to improve future prospects for their children. Their masculine, working-class identity doubtlessly contained considerable self-delusion and self-aggrandizement within it, and the opportunities provided for others were ambiguous. … Nonetheless, sacrifice through work was pivotal to the identity of this constituency and to the political loyalties it cultivated.”4

While sacrifice is integral to their identity, they resist it when introduced by others. To make sense of this, note the role that the shifting grammar of sacrifice plays in the apparent tension between these accounts. Using sacrifice as a verb, I can actively and willingly sacrifice; as a noun, I can also be sacrificed. In the first case, I am an agent; in the second case, I am a victim. This distinction is often elided, yet it is vital–and at least partly subjective.

When action is coordinated communally and politically, a variety of options become feasible: large-scale investment in infrastructure and renewable energy, land-use and urban planning policy to reduce dependence on cars and foster more walkable communities, and incentives to promote green jobs.

For example, in the context of organized religion, where sacrifice is a frequent theme, how do we distinguish between making a willing sacrifice because we believe that a just god commanded it and being victimized by the directive of religious authorities? Similarly, in the fog of war, does a soldier sacrifice life and limb willingly, out of loyalty to nation and comrades, or does he feel like cannon-fodder, beholden to the ambitions of a tyrannical ruler? Does a mother sacrifice her time and opportunities willingly for her children or is she constrained by unjust gender roles? Making the distinction in such cases depends in large part upon the judgments of the actors themselves, and those judgments are formed through their perceptions of justice and effectiveness.

When I perceive the distribution of burden to be unfair; when those calling for change don't also appear to be participating, I'm more likely to view myself as a sacrificial victim, and I'm more likely to resist such a hypocritical call. When the United States urges emissions reductions in China and India–where per capita emission rates remain radically lower–it has this character. When presidential candidate John Edwards urged Americans to sacrifice their SUVs to conserve energy–while owning more than one himself and building a 28,000-square-foot home–it had this character.

Connolly's findings suggest that if social critics clearly recognize and acknowledge that people are already giving up something of value, it can go a long way to countering this perceived hypocrisy and paternalism.

Sacrifice begets anxiety because we are afraid that our sacrifices will be for naught. To make a willing sacrifice, this anxiety must be tempered with the hope that what we give up now will, in fact, lead to some future good. A willing sacrifice must be motivated by the hope that our actions matter and that they can succeed in bringing us closer to that which we value. But this hope can rarely be sustained through individual action alone, because the likelihood of success is diminished by familiar difficulties of collective action–if I act when others don't, I'll incur personal costs without social benefit; if I don't act when others do, I'll share in the benefit without cost. By contrast, when action is coordinated communally and politically, a variety of options become feasible: large-scale investment in infrastructure and renewable energy, land-use and urban planning policy to reduce dependence on cars and foster more walkable communities, and incentives to promote green jobs.

It would be illusory to suggest that such action is painless; public investment requires tax dollars; land-use policy generates winners and losers; green jobs may be at the expense of brown ones. What distinguishes such measures is their potential for both improving lives through the reduction of coerced and inequitable sacrifice now and their potential for tempering the coerced and inequitable impact of climate change and other environmental harms in the future. If the genuine promise of sacrifice is, as the Oxford English Dictionary would have it, “The destruction or surrender of something valued or desired for the sake of something having, or regarded as having, a higher or more pressing claim,” then it could really only be fulfilled in this manner.

What I am proposing is not a specific set of policies or of campaign talking points. I mean instead to sketch some of the characteristics of a different way of thinking and talking about environmental challenges. In the end, engaged and salient social criticism must build upon the radical hope that our future can be a better one for which it is worth taking action. In a world with no guarantees, it is this hope that might motivate us to change the world–in a way that neither despair nor optimism can.