Next of Kin
Laura England | December 2016
We live in the Anthropocene, a time marked heavily by loss. But not all loss is equal. Some loss is expected, natural. But loss that comes well before its time is tragic. Tragic loss severs bonds when their strength is still growing rather than senescing. It leaves gaping holes and waves of distress that continue for years, decades, or longer as the absence is felt in myriad ways by others.
Extinction is a natural process of loss that has occurred throughout the 3.8 billion year history of life on our planet. More than 99.9% of species that ever existed on Earth are now extinct. Loss of species is expected, natural. But those of us who live in the Anthropocene are witnessing, and contributing to, tragic losses of species—losses that are occurring well before their time. Harvard biodiversity expert E.O. Wilson estimates that current rates of extinction are as much as 10,000 times higher than the natural background rate of extinction. Wilson also estimates that we are now losing as much as 30,000 species per year due to a variety of anthropogenic threats, from habitat destruction, fragmentation and degradation, to human-facilitated spread of invasive species and disease, as well as human-driven climate change.
The scale of these tragic losses is heartbreaking. And for each species that vanishes before its time, there is a wake of severed bonds with repercussions that reverberate through what Charles Darwin described as the “tangled bank” of an ecosystem. Tragic extinctions can mean loss of food for one species, loss of pollination services for another, loss of population control that prevents herbivores from denuding a landscape, loss of nutrient processing that feeds a host of other species, and more. The interconnectedness inherent to the ecology of our natural world means that the voids created by tragic species loss are felt by many members of an ecological community for years or decades to come.
I know all too well the difference between routine loss and tragic loss. When I was twenty-two years old, my mother was diagnosed with an aggressive cancer. Six months later she was gone. She was forty-seven. That tragic loss put me in a tailspin and left voids that I’m still trying to compensate for. The same is true for my two siblings, my father, and even my Mom’s own mother who survived two of her children and lived to age 96. Hundreds more in our community were touched by my Mom’s tragic, untimely death. I still occasionally hear from the now grown children who were part of my mom’s first grade class during that dreadful year.
But sometimes tragic losses are averted. The story of the American bison is one of these cases. These behemoths came back from the brink of extinction, and represent resilience for many people. More than 50 million bison once roamed North American landscapes from the Appalachians to the Rockies, and from the Gulf Coast to Alaska. But by the end of the 19th century, their population wobbled around just one thousand bison.
How could this happen to such remarkably strong animals? Bison are the largest mammal in North America, and can weigh up to a ton and stand six feet tall. Despite their mammoth size, bison are surprisingly agile and can run up to 35 miles per hour. They sustain their massive bodies by foraging about ten hours a day on grasses and leafy plants. These hardy animals have to survive harsh winter conditions. It’s no wonder Native Americans treasured their furs; a bison’s winter coat is so thick and well insulated that snow can cover their backs without even melting. They shed this fur in the spring by rolling around in the dirt, which scrapes and crushes vegetation and creates a shallow basin called a wallow. Wallowing is a means for bison to cool off, deter biting flies, and mark their territory.
Just this past May, the American bison became our national mammal when President Obama signed the National Bison Legacy Act into law. While all kinds of urgent matters stagnated, our polarized Congress at least could agree that the bison is a worthy national symbol. Ironically, these animals were once persecuted by our government.
During the 19th century, European settlers killed millions of bison for food and sport. But the most sinister of the reasons for the slaughter was to deprive Native Americans of an essential natural asset. Bison were central to the lives and livelihoods of Native American tribes for thousands of years, providing food, clothing, fuel, tools, shelter and spiritual inspiration. But as the U.S. government pushed white settlers westward in fulfillment of Manifest Destiny, it wasn’t enough to simply displace Native Americans from their lands. Our government also threatened indigenous peoples by intentionally exterminating bison herds to eliminate this key source of their sustenance.
It’s strange to think how much our collective intentions toward this animal have shifted. Thanks to focused recovery efforts, today nearly half a million bison live across North America. The Department of Interior manages public lands in twelve states that support 17 free-ranging bison herds. Still, Yellowstone National Park, the first national park in the world, is the only place in our country where bison have lived continuously since prehistoric times.
Like the bison, I, too, feel the urge to wallow from time to time. I’m not good at letting go, moving on. After seventeen years, I’m still recovering from my family’s tragic loss. And I doubt moving on is easy for the “ecological next-of-kin” for the 30,000 species that are tragically extinguished each year.
As my mom endured chemotherapy, radiation treatment, and all kinds of poking, prodding and scanning, she read about, and drew strength and hope from, the story of the American bison in a book by cancer survivor Bob Stone called Where the Buffaloes Roam. And though my Mom didn’t come back from the brink herself, the bison remains an inspiration to me as an environmentalist.
And I know I’m not the only one. This fall as hundreds of Native Americans, representing tribes from all over the country, stood tall weeks into protesting the Dakota Access Pipeline and the threats it poses to their water and futures, they drew strength and inspiration from the appearance of a herd of bison on the scene. And as smart phone footage of this event went viral, millions of social media viewers cheered on the bison, the Native Americans, the environmentalists and other activists who are pushing back hard against the losses of the Anthropocene.
Laura England | December 2016
We live in the Anthropocene, a time marked heavily by loss. But not all loss is equal. Some loss is expected, natural. But loss that comes well before its time is tragic. Tragic loss severs bonds when their strength is still growing rather than senescing. It leaves gaping holes and waves of distress that continue for years, decades, or longer as the absence is felt in myriad ways by others.
Extinction is a natural process of loss that has occurred throughout the 3.8 billion year history of life on our planet. More than 99.9% of species that ever existed on Earth are now extinct. Loss of species is expected, natural. But those of us who live in the Anthropocene are witnessing, and contributing to, tragic losses of species—losses that are occurring well before their time. Harvard biodiversity expert E.O. Wilson estimates that current rates of extinction are as much as 10,000 times higher than the natural background rate of extinction. Wilson also estimates that we are now losing as much as 30,000 species per year due to a variety of anthropogenic threats, from habitat destruction, fragmentation and degradation, to human-facilitated spread of invasive species and disease, as well as human-driven climate change.
The scale of these tragic losses is heartbreaking. And for each species that vanishes before its time, there is a wake of severed bonds with repercussions that reverberate through what Charles Darwin described as the “tangled bank” of an ecosystem. Tragic extinctions can mean loss of food for one species, loss of pollination services for another, loss of population control that prevents herbivores from denuding a landscape, loss of nutrient processing that feeds a host of other species, and more. The interconnectedness inherent to the ecology of our natural world means that the voids created by tragic species loss are felt by many members of an ecological community for years or decades to come.
I know all too well the difference between routine loss and tragic loss. When I was twenty-two years old, my mother was diagnosed with an aggressive cancer. Six months later she was gone. She was forty-seven. That tragic loss put me in a tailspin and left voids that I’m still trying to compensate for. The same is true for my two siblings, my father, and even my Mom’s own mother who survived two of her children and lived to age 96. Hundreds more in our community were touched by my Mom’s tragic, untimely death. I still occasionally hear from the now grown children who were part of my mom’s first grade class during that dreadful year.
But sometimes tragic losses are averted. The story of the American bison is one of these cases. These behemoths came back from the brink of extinction, and represent resilience for many people. More than 50 million bison once roamed North American landscapes from the Appalachians to the Rockies, and from the Gulf Coast to Alaska. But by the end of the 19th century, their population wobbled around just one thousand bison.
How could this happen to such remarkably strong animals? Bison are the largest mammal in North America, and can weigh up to a ton and stand six feet tall. Despite their mammoth size, bison are surprisingly agile and can run up to 35 miles per hour. They sustain their massive bodies by foraging about ten hours a day on grasses and leafy plants. These hardy animals have to survive harsh winter conditions. It’s no wonder Native Americans treasured their furs; a bison’s winter coat is so thick and well insulated that snow can cover their backs without even melting. They shed this fur in the spring by rolling around in the dirt, which scrapes and crushes vegetation and creates a shallow basin called a wallow. Wallowing is a means for bison to cool off, deter biting flies, and mark their territory.
Just this past May, the American bison became our national mammal when President Obama signed the National Bison Legacy Act into law. While all kinds of urgent matters stagnated, our polarized Congress at least could agree that the bison is a worthy national symbol. Ironically, these animals were once persecuted by our government.
During the 19th century, European settlers killed millions of bison for food and sport. But the most sinister of the reasons for the slaughter was to deprive Native Americans of an essential natural asset. Bison were central to the lives and livelihoods of Native American tribes for thousands of years, providing food, clothing, fuel, tools, shelter and spiritual inspiration. But as the U.S. government pushed white settlers westward in fulfillment of Manifest Destiny, it wasn’t enough to simply displace Native Americans from their lands. Our government also threatened indigenous peoples by intentionally exterminating bison herds to eliminate this key source of their sustenance.
It’s strange to think how much our collective intentions toward this animal have shifted. Thanks to focused recovery efforts, today nearly half a million bison live across North America. The Department of Interior manages public lands in twelve states that support 17 free-ranging bison herds. Still, Yellowstone National Park, the first national park in the world, is the only place in our country where bison have lived continuously since prehistoric times.
Like the bison, I, too, feel the urge to wallow from time to time. I’m not good at letting go, moving on. After seventeen years, I’m still recovering from my family’s tragic loss. And I doubt moving on is easy for the “ecological next-of-kin” for the 30,000 species that are tragically extinguished each year.
As my mom endured chemotherapy, radiation treatment, and all kinds of poking, prodding and scanning, she read about, and drew strength and hope from, the story of the American bison in a book by cancer survivor Bob Stone called Where the Buffaloes Roam. And though my Mom didn’t come back from the brink herself, the bison remains an inspiration to me as an environmentalist.
And I know I’m not the only one. This fall as hundreds of Native Americans, representing tribes from all over the country, stood tall weeks into protesting the Dakota Access Pipeline and the threats it poses to their water and futures, they drew strength and inspiration from the appearance of a herd of bison on the scene. And as smart phone footage of this event went viral, millions of social media viewers cheered on the bison, the Native Americans, the environmentalists and other activists who are pushing back hard against the losses of the Anthropocene.