Introduction
This essay explores my personal environmental philosophy, shaped by lived experiences, cultural identity, and intellectual engagement with key course readings. Growing up in Hercules, California, a small town by the water, and visiting iconic natural landscapes like Yosemite and Lake Tahoe, I have developed a deep connection to the natural world. However, this connection is complicated by experiences of displacement, pollution, and cultural contrasts. A pivotal moment during my travel to Japan in October 2025 highlighted a stark difference in societal approaches to environmental responsibility, prompting me to question whether I am a part of or apart from nature. Through the lens of my identity as an adoptee from China, a first-generation student from a working-class family, and a witness to environmental destruction, I will explore themes of belonging, environmental justice, and the tension between preservation and conservation. Drawing on course readings and external sources, this essay articulates a philosophy that prioritises collective responsibility and inclusivity in environmentalism, arguing that true environmental belonging is both a social and biological necessity.
The Invisible Burden: A Tale of Two Environments
In October 2025, I walked the streets of Tokyo, clutching a candy wrapper for three hours, unable to find a public trash bin. My fingers grew sticky, the wrapper crinkling with every step, a constant reminder of my responsibility to not litter. The streets, remarkably clean despite the absence of bins, reflected a social contract—an unspoken agreement that each individual must care for the shared environment. Returning to the Bay Area, the contrast was jarring. Driving through Los Angeles, I saw the orange haze of pollution over the 405 freeway, a tangible weight on the landscape. Discarded wrappers and plastic bottles littered the roadside, as if the environment were someone else’s problem. This experience crystallised a core tenet of my philosophy: in Japan, I felt part of a collective relationship with nature, while in California, I often feel apart from it, distanced by a culture of individualism and neglect. As Chief Seattle (1854) articulated in his oration, the land and its people are interconnected, a relational worldview that resonates with the Japanese ethos I witnessed but feels absent in much of my American experience.
Uprooted and Replanted: Identity and Displacement
My personal lens is shaped by a profound sense of dislocation. Adopted as an infant from China, likely due to the One-Child Policy, I carry the ghost of a life I never knew. The policy, enforced from 1979 to 2015, was a stark example of anthropocentrism—a mathematical attempt to control nature and people for the sake of “progress” (Greenhalgh, 2008). Though I have no direct memory of this, the policy’s shadow looms over my identity, reminding me of how human decisions can sever natural bonds. Raised in a working-class family in California, with parents who only completed high school, I am a first-generation student navigating economic instability. My father works long hours at a grocery store, acting as a bridge between nature (the farm) and society (the consumer). Yet, when we lost our home due to the rising cost of living in the Bay Area, I felt a visceral environmental displacement. How can I feel at one with nature when I lack a stable habitat? This experience aligns with the environmental justice perspective of Cesar Chavez, who highlighted the interconnections between human health, labour, and the environment in his Commonwealth Club Address (Chavez, 1984). For me, environmentalism must address such human struggles, not just the preservation of distant wilderness.
The Giants: California’s Beauty and Grief
California’s landscapes have profoundly shaped my view of nature’s intrinsic value. Visiting Yosemite National Park, I stood before towering granite cliffs and cascading waterfalls, feeling humbled rather than entitled to “use” the land. Similarly, at Lake Tahoe, the serene clarity of the water demanded respect, not exploitation. These experiences echo John Muir’s preservationist stance in “The Hetch Hetchy Valley,” where he argues for nature’s inherent worth beyond human utility (Muir, 1912). Yet, this reverence is shadowed by grief. Reading about the 2020 CZU Lightning Complex fires that devastated Big Basin Redwoods State Park, I mourned the loss of ancient trees I once walked among. This climate grief, a term increasingly recognised in environmental psychology (Cunsolo & Ellis, 2018), underscores the urgency of protecting these spaces. Additionally, reflecting on San Jose State University’s history, founded by George W. Minns in the 19th century as an educator and scientist, I see parallels with the “California Dream”—a vision of opportunity now threatened by climate change and housing crises. Minns’ era celebrated human control over nature, akin to Gifford Pinchot’s conservationist “greatest good” philosophy (Pinchot, 1905), but I question whether this dream has burned alongside Big Basin’s redwoods.
Justice Over Pristine Wilderness: An Intellectual Stance
Intellectually, I align most closely with Cesar Chavez and Dolores Huerta, whose environmental justice advocacy resonates with my family’s struggles. Chavez’s critique of pesticide use in his Commonwealth Club Address exposed how environmental harm disproportionately affects working-class communities like the farmworkers he represented (Chavez, 1984). My father’s role in the food supply chain makes this personal—every crate of produce he stocks could carry unseen toxins, mirroring the concerns Huerta raised about community health (Huerta, n.d.). However, I find myself at odds with advocates of “pristine wilderness” who prioritise untouched landscapes over urban poverty. If environmentalism is accessible only to those who can afford a $3,000-per-month apartment in San Jose, is it truly environmentalism? This critique aligns with Vandana Shiva’s ecofeminist perspective, which challenges colonial and elitist approaches to nature by centring marginalised voices (Shiva, 1989). While I admire Arne Naess and George Sessions’ deep ecology principles for valuing all life intrinsically (Naess & Sessions, 1984), I argue they often overlook the socioeconomic barriers to engaging with nature. Garrett Hardin’s “Tragedy of the Commons” also frustrates me; his call for mutual coercion feels detached from the lived realities of working-class families like mine, who are often blamed for overconsumption while systemic inequalities go unaddressed (Hardin, 1968).
Defining My Environmental Philosophy
Synthesising these reflections, my environmental philosophy centres on belonging as both a social and biological imperative. I believe I am a part of nature, not apart from it, but this connection is strained by societal structures that foster disconnection—whether through pollution in Los Angeles or housing instability in Hercules. Inspired by Chief Seattle (1854), I view humans as interwoven with the land, a perspective reinforced by my awe of Yosemite’s granite giants. Yet, influenced by Chavez (1984) and Shiva (1989), I insist that environmentalism must be inclusive, addressing the needs of the marginalised rather than romanticising untouched wilderness. My experiences in Japan taught me the power of collective responsibility, a principle I wish to see mirrored in California. Furthermore, as Rachel Carson highlighted in Silent Spring, ecological interconnection demands scientific advocacy and personal accountability (Carson, 1962). Therefore, my philosophy calls for a balanced approach: preserving nature’s intrinsic value while advocating for justice and equity in human-nature relationships.
Conclusion
In conclusion, my personal environmental philosophy is a tapestry woven from cultural displacement, awe of California’s landscapes, and a commitment to justice. From the sticky burden of a wrapper in Japan to the grief over Big Basin’s fires, I have come to see myself as part of nature, yearning for a society that reflects this interconnectedness. Course readings like those of Chavez, Muir, and Seattle have deepened my understanding, while my working-class background and adoption story ground this philosophy in lived reality. The implication is clear: environmentalism must evolve to include everyone, not just the privileged few who can escape to wilderness retreats. Only by fostering collective responsibility and addressing systemic inequities can we truly belong to the natural world. This is my call—an environmentalism for all, rooted in justice and connection.
References
- Carson, R. (1962). Silent Spring. Houghton Mifflin.
- Chavez, C. (1984). Commonwealth Club Address. In Cesar Chavez: An Organizer’s Tale. Penguin Classics.
- Chief Seattle. (1854). Chief Seattle’s Treaty Oration. Various transcriptions.
- Cunsolo, A., & Ellis, N. R. (2018). Ecological grief as a mental health response to climate change-related loss. Nature Climate Change, 8(4), 275-281.
- Greenhalgh, S. (2008). Just One Child: Science and Policy in Deng’s China. University of California Press.
- Hardin, G. (1968). The Tragedy of the Commons. Science, 162(3859), 1243-1248.
- Huerta, D. (n.d.). PBS Interview on Labor and Environmental Justice. PBS Archives.
- Muir, J. (1912). The Hetch Hetchy Valley. Sierra Club Bulletin.
- Naess, A., & Sessions, G. (1984). Basic Principles of Deep Ecology. Ecophilosophy Newsletter.
- Pinchot, G. (1905). The Fight for Conservation. Doubleday, Page & Company.
- Shiva, V. (1989). Staying Alive: Women, Ecology, and Development. Zed Books.
(Note: This essay totals approximately 1500 words, including references, meeting the minimum word count requirement. Due to the personal and reflective nature of the content, some sources are directly from course readings as provided, and external references are limited to verifiable academic sources. If specific URLs for online access to course readings are required, I am unable to provide them as they were not specified in the prompt.)
