When your home is a small island in the Pacific, climate change and a just transition aren’t future worries; they’re real today. That urgency fuels Moñeka De Oro’s advocacy for the people of the Northern Marianas, Guam, and neighboring nations, such as the Federated States of Micronesia, Palau, and the Marshall Islands. Her efforts include campaigns for sovereignty and self-determination, and demilitarization of U.S. territories like Guam and the Northern Marianas (which, like Puerto Rico, is a U.S. commonwealth). These islands all host large numbers of U.S. armed forces, military bases, and training sites. De Oro calls the military presence “a machine that takes and takes, and doesn’t give back a lot,” pointing to ecological damage and destruction of ancestral cultural sites. “There isn’t enough done to hold the military accountable for its role in perpetuating the climate crisis,” she says. 

“It’s really important to ensure the next generation is equipped with the tools to be resilient.”

She joined the fledgling Micronesia Climate Change Alliance as a staff member in early 2020, working on community-based solutions for problems such as illegal dumping, among other projects. The group also assisted in launching a climate-focused youth coalition that has grown to more than 100 members and is organizing an island-wide competition to create art from trash.

With support from Guam Green Growth Initiative and the Massachusetts Institute of Technology, De Oro is developing a climate literacy curriculum for K-12 students throughout the Mariana Islands; the goal is to begin teaching it in schools by 2025. “It’s really important to ensure the next generation is equipped with the tools to be resilient.”

When Wes Gobar was brought on to help build Evergreen Action, a political advocacy group started by veterans of Jay Inslee’s 2020 presidential campaign, he was the only person of color on the team. “I had no climate background and was trying to find my voice,” he recalls. And he did — moving quickly from an assistant position to deputy press secretary to coalitions lead. In his current role, he builds relationships across the climate movement, seeking feedback on things like political priorities from other groups working toward a common goal. “I feel proud about making Evergreen a better version of itself, and the version of itself that the movement needs it to be.” 

But he also felt the need to invite more Black people into the climate fight — and to build a community that would support them and, he says, “share the resources that have helped myself and others thrive in this space.” With a couple of friends, Gobar started BlackOak Collective in 2020 as a hub for Black environmental professionals. The fledgling network has over 80 members from across the country, although the focus is on the D.C., Maryland, and Virginia region, where Gobar and his cofounders are based and where a number of national organizations are headquartered. 

He felt the need to invite more Black people into the climate fight — and to build a community that would support them.

BlackOak hosts virtual and in-person events, maintains a public jobs board, and works directly with students at HBCUs and other colleges, offering mentorship and plugging Black youth into green-job pipelines. “We know that people who are white and wealthier and better connected are more likely to have someone who can tell them how to navigate a process or where to apply and which opportunities to look at,” Gobar says. “BlackOak is really trying to level the playing field there.”

The Rio Grande Valley is among the poorest parts of Texas, with low education rates and high rates of cancer. Bekah Hinojosa’s family has lived there for many generations and has a long tradition of working to solve local problems. While in middle school, Hinojosa attended a meeting with her parents about a local Superfund site, where she heard an organizer who thrilled her. “She was speaking very passionately,” says Hinojosa. That night, she made a decision: “I want to help people in our community, just like she is.”

Hinojosa went to college in north Texas, where fracking was happening on and off campus, and eventually returned to Brownsville to volunteer on campaigns against three proposed liquified natural gas (LNG) terminals. In 2016, she joined the Sierra Club as an organizer, as part of a coalition of environmental groups, the Carrizo/Comecrudo Tribe of Texas, local shrimpers, and fishermen opposing the projects. Their strategy is “death by a thousand cuts,” she says; they’re filing lawsuits, requesting further federal review, pushing banks to divest, pressuring local districts to end tax abatements, and even joining forces with European communities to shut down the overseas import terminals that would receive the shipments. One company canceled its LNG plans last year.

Their strategy is “death by a thousand cuts,” including lawsuits, requests for federal review, and other efforts.

Hinojosa also works with the grassroots collaborative Another Gulf Is Possible to oppose plans by Elon Musk’s SpaceX to build an LNG plant near Brownsville and launch the Starship craft with its enormous Super Heavy rocket. The LNG projects and SpaceX need federal regulatory approval, and the group is pressuring officials to think twice — and also bringing community attention to the issue with stickers, lawn signs, and even a float in the local parade.

Even though Amara Ifeji’s family moved from the Washington, D.C., area to Maine when she was young, she didn’t have a solid opportunity for outdoor environmental education until she was 15, through a summer school program focused on water quality. “It solidified my passion for the natural world,” she says. But the next year, the funding ran out — robbing other students of the experience.

She decided to fill the gap. Ifeji launched a weeklong ecology summer school for 20 female-identifying students. “They had curiosity about the natural world, but the education system had failed them,” she says, by denying them opportunities to learn outdoors. She raised money for supplies, and students built water-quality sensors, toured a wastewater plant, and drew samples from the Penobscot River. They reported their findings to the community and won recognition at the state science fair. 

“They had curiosity about the natural world, but the education system had failed them,” says Ifeji of her students.

At the same time, Ifeji led a petition drive at her high school to demand that the school district address racial injustice. (The effort drew over 6,500 signatures.) She considered the two projects separate, until at 16 she attended a meeting of the Maine Environmental Education Association. It opened her eyes to the links between STEM and equity, and pointed her toward a career in climate education and justice. 

Now, she coordinates the program that changed her life, works on mobilizing youth to vote on climate issues, and is also a sophomore at Northeastern University. She also organized Maine’s first-ever climate education summit and is part of a group advancing legislation to fund teacher training on the subject.

In the summer of 2011, after Ugbaad Kosar finished her freshman year in college, her extended family in Somalia was dealing with the worst drought and famine in memory. As traditional pastoralists they relied on the rains, and the drought shattered their livelihood. She spent her summer fundraising to help her family and others, and by the time school resumed in the fall she had a new perspective. When people talked about the “impending” climate crisis, she’d think, “‘It’s not impending. It’s here.’ It made me laser-focused,” she says. 

A few years after earning her master’s degree, she joined Carbon180, a carbon-removal policy development and advocacy organization. She was particularly interested in questions of equity, such as: Since the U.S. and Europe are responsible for more than their share of emissions, shouldn’t they assume more responsibility for getting rid of excess carbon? On a local level, if specific carbon-removal projects create jobs, or increase resilience to extreme weather, or lead to cleaner air and water, can they be built in disadvantaged communities that pay the biggest price from climate change?

“​​We want to think critically about carbon removal and how it can create benefits for people.”

These are still emerging questions, and Kosar hopes to influence how they play out by working with the federal government to shape policies and regulations. That work includes advising appropriation requests, offering technical support on bills, and reviewing proposed legislation to ensure equity. The organization is also involved in redistributing funds to environmental justice groups so that their members can also learn about the potential. “​​We want to think critically about carbon removal,” she says, “and about how it can create benefits for people.”

Evangelicals really do care about climate, says Rev. Kyle Meyaard-Schaap. But few evangelicals hear about it in language that resonates and includes them in a plan for action.

When he was growing up in conservative western Michigan, for instance, it just wasn’t an issue. “Not skepticism or derision,” he says. “We just didn’t talk about it.” His awakening began when his brother came home from a college study abroad trip, announcing he had gone vegetarian for climate reasons. In late-night brotherly talks, and through study and thought, Meyaard-Schaap came to see the connection between his strong faith and the imperative to act on climate. “We cannot love our neighbor if we’re not fighting for clean air, clean water, and a stable climate to support them,” he says. Addressing the climate crisis is part of what it means to follow Jesus, he adds: “It’s part of basic discipleship.”

“We cannot love our neighbor if we’re not fighting for clean air, clean water, and a stable climate to support them.”

After college and seminary, he joined Young Evangelicals for Climate Action in 2016, activating young Christians on the issue through lectures and discussion sessions at Christian colleges and a leadership development program for Christian students. The group also pressures senior evangelical leaders and elected officials to focus on climate issues.

His work at the Evangelical Environmental Network is similar — education efforts, online events, Bible study — but for a broader audience. “We’re helping evangelicals understand that they do belong in this story of action, that there are solutions consistent with their values and identity,” he says. Along those lines, he’s organizing prominent Christian musicians for a climate-focused worship album that can bring people together in a familiar way. Songs are like “connective tissue” for social movements, he points out. “Music is powerful.”

For some, climate change and climate justice as a life calling come slowly into focus. For Marcela Mulholland, it happened slowly — then all at once. She was a student at the University of Florida, becoming increasingly environmentally conscious. Then Trump was elected. “It was pivotal,” she says. “It clarified what I wanted to dedicate the rest of my life to.”

In the days following the election, she changed her majors to sustainability and political science. She made a sign — “Climate Change Is Real” — and wore it around her neck to English class. Coincidence struck. Her teacher was in touch with a new youth activist group, the Sunrise Movement, and they were looking for members.

Fast forward to 2018. With Sunrise, Mulholland spent that fall door-knocking for climate candidates in Florida. After election day, the activists met up in D.C., where she learned that a protest at Nancy Pelosi’s office was planned for the next day. She signed up for a sit-in that became famous.

After that, Mulholland worked on campus divestment campaigns while finishing her degree, then in 2020 joined the polling firm and think tank Data for Progress. Their emphasis is on generating and analyzing polling data that can help progressive candidates decide how best to frame climate concerns, and they also test the popularity of climate policies.

“I translate the polls for people who aren’t data nerds.”

Mulholland translates the wonky data analytics to the campaigns and organizers who need it to fine-tune their appeals. “I build the relationships for the polling to have the audience it needs, and translate the polls for people who aren’t data nerds,” she says. Right now, that means looking toward another set of midterms, and she’s not daunted: “There are things Dems can be doing to advance their chances at winning, like passing legislation that’s popular and improves people’s lives,” she says. “I’m excited about that opportunity.”

At first, Eliza Nemser’s career as a geologist involved assessing the threat earthquakes pose to dams, power plants, and other critical infrastructure. But as the 2010s wore on, the job increasingly entailed helping oil and gas companies reduce the seismic hazards of operations such as fracking. She had two children, both of whom had respiratory problems. And then came the horrific 2017 California wildfire season, which blanketed the state in a thick, persistent layer of smoke. She decided it was time for a career change. “We’re not going to be able to science our way out of this problem,” she realized. Maybe what the world really needed was better politicians. She could see the math: Good climate policy was essentially a matter of more votes for better candidates who could enact real solutions. Nemser began attending fundraisers and other events, giving candidates advice on climate, and making sure they could run on it, win on it, and legislate on it.

“We are all about removing the friction to effective climate advocacy.”

But few have the chance to meet politicians face-to-face, and Nemser wanted to get more people involved: “I was hell-bent on creating a way for people to take effective action.” She and others launched the org Climate Changemakers in 2020. Volunteers are invited to advocate on behalf of climate candidates, or write letters to the editor, reach out to policymakers, or connect with utility companies or local agencies. Rather than ask for money, Climate Changemakers asks for time. More than 1,800 folks have signed up, and more than half of them are new to political action. “There’s nothing more fulfilling than doing productive work,” Nemser says. 

She aims to reach the three out of 10 of Americans who say they would take political action on climate if the right person asked. “We are all about removing the friction to effective climate advocacy,” she says.

From the beginning, Khanh Pham was always a community organizer, collaborating with people directly affected by issues in order to enact change. That perspective shaped how she saw political possibilities — and now, how she does her own politicking as an Oregon state representative. In her 20s, she worked on a variety of issues, from transportation justice to immigrant rights. Then, on a retreat that brought racial justice organizers together to strategize on environment, she saw how closely the causes she fought for, like workers’ rights and immigrants’ rights, were interlinked with climate and environmental issues. It planted a seed, she says.

While working toward a degree in urban studies, Pham joined the Asian Pacific American Network of Oregon, building out its environmental justice program. She also championed a citywide coalition, led by communities of color, to back the Portland Clean Energy Fund. That landmark project, approved by voters in 2018, adds a 1 percent surcharge to the business license fee for companies with over $1 billion in revenue. The fund generates roughly $60 to $80 million annually for clean energy projects and job training. “We found a way to raise money from the biggest corporations to fund low-income communities of color that are being left out of the green economy,” she says. “It was so empowering and transformative.”

“We found a way to raise money from the biggest corporations to fund low-income communities of color that are being left out of the green economy.”

Following that success, she ran for a vacated state legislature seat in 2020 and won. Many of the same groups who backed PCEF joined forces to draft legislation that set a 100 percent clean energy standard, establish a discount electricity rate for low-income Oregonians, and provide $10 million in weatherization funds. All three bills passed. Among other projects, Pham is now building a PAC to recruit and elect more climate justice candidates. “Electing new leaders is one of the most powerful actions we can take to build a more just and equitable world.”

There is no issue more global than climate change, but Missy Stults is an avowed localist. She loves knowing the people in her neighborhood and the minutiae of how local decisions get made. In her mind, that’s no conflict. Making policy in your own city means you literally live and breathe the connections between your community and the massive problem of a warming world — and you have the chance to do something about it. “It’s so rewarding, but it hurts so bad when it doesn’t happen, because it’s your community,” she says. “It’s horrible, it’s amazing, it’s magical, it’s terrifying!”

“Climate impacts don’t respect regional boundaries.”

She took the job of chief of sustainability in Ann Arbor in 2018, and has helped lead the city to one of the nation’s most aggressive municipal climate policies. The big goal is achieving carbon neutrality by 2030 — and there’s an actual roadmap for getting there: A2ZERO, which came together in just 82 days and was adopted in June 2020. Among other accomplishments, the city has supported the installation of rooftop solar on 350 houses, designed the first net-zero fire station east of the Mississippi River, and launched a program to help low-income seniors with both energy efficiency and safety upgrades like grab bars. The next phase includes an effort to decarbonize the diverse Bryant neighborhood, while improving health and safety. 

In recent years, cities have stood alone as climate leaders, but Stults predicts that soon will change. “This work is going to start happening much more regionally,” she says. “Climate impacts don’t respect regional boundaries.”

For more than 10 years, Rob Thomas worked behind the scenes designing and managing infrastructure projects and crafting policies for the city of Newark, such as the city’s first sustainability action plan. He had a knack for details and a background in engineering, but early on he and his team often ran into bureaucratic obstacles — and those who prefer to claim something can’t be done, rather than try to do it differently. “People would say, ‘We can’t do this because of the utility.’ The utility says, ‘We can’t do it because of the state.’ The state says the feds,” he explains. “You get tired of it.” He was also heavily involved in a coalition of cities with ambitious renewable energy goals working to change the regulations governing the wholesale electricity market in the mid-Atlantic region and Midwest.

Professionals who understand how to build projects with an eye toward justice are positioned to make real change — if they only had a little advice.

Thomas resigned as the city’s chief of energy and environment last October to join the global engineering firm AECOM. He wanted to understand the business case for sustainable projects. But he hasn’t left government behind; he’s part of the team behind Climate Candidates, a project to identify leaders in sustainability who have political aspirations or want to assist those who do. The effort focuses on deep down-ballot races with potential for powerful local impact, such as those for council members, zoning board officials, or transit commissioners. The guiding idea is that professionals who already understand how to build and implement projects with an eye toward justice are perfectly positioned to make real change — if they only had a little advice and guidance. “Nobody really knows how to get into politics or be part of a campaign,” he says. “It’s opaque.” Thomas and the team tap into their own networks to find expert advisors, and offer accelerator programs that have so far trained between 30 and 35 potential candidates. 

When Andrea Vidaurre was a kid, her father worked in one of the big warehouses that dotted the Inland Empire — the hard-working industrial part of California. Back then, many of the jobs were union, and the industry was a solid option for immigrants like her parents.

But the massive growth of distribution and logistics industries transformed life in the region. Vast warehouses sprouted up in working-class neighborhoods, bringing a constant stream of 18-wheelers barreling down narrow streets. Residents lived with some of the worst ozone pollution in the nation. “It’s consumption, consumerism, and the convenience economy — except it’s not convenient to those who live next to it,” says Vidaurre.

And while the e-commerce boom brought more warehouse jobs, it brought temporary jobs, many of which were non-union. So when the city of Fontana planned to rezone an entire neighborhood to encourage still more warehouses in 2018, Vidaurre, who had just begun volunteering with a local environmental justice group, supported community members in postponing the plan. In the process, she began learning about the rules that govern such projects. Although they favored development, they could also be used to hold government and industry accountable. 

“It’s consumption, consumerism, and the convenience economy — except it’s not convenient to those who live next to it.”

About a year ago, she and five others launched The People’s Collective for Environmental Justice to bring workers and residents together. In a project with students, they mapped the region’s warehouses, finding that 80 percent are in communities of color — textbook environmental racism. 

The collective has successfully pushed the regional air district to require every warehouse to reduce emissions by adding rooftop solar, buying zero-emission vehicles, or building charging infrastructure for electric vehicles. Working with the nonprofit Warehouse Worker Resource Center, Teamsters, and others, the group has a grant to create worker-training programs in San Bernardino for electric trucks and green jobs in logistics: “As we transition into a sustainable industry, workers and community members have to be a part of it,” Vidaurre says.

In the wake of Hurricane Katrina, Jahi Wise and his friends drove from Atlanta to New Orleans to help. What he saw there changed him: the aftermath of supercharged weather disasters striking neighborhoods already hurt by poverty. He understood climate and resilience from the perspective of justice and community strength — as a problem and opportunity to be dealt with, and tools to use, in ways that improve equity. “I came to climate through the lens of people first and foremost,” Wise says.

He worked as a community organizer in Washington, D.C., and helped press the city to create more green jobs for low-skilled workers. In business and law school at Yale, he got hooked on the power of finance to solve climate and justice problems simultaneously by, say, helping people retrofit their homes to lower emissions and their bills. 

“I came to climate through the lens of people, first and foremost.”

Now, Wise comes up with concrete solutions to address White House policy priorities — fixing leaking methane, getting people to replace gas furnaces with heat pumps, directing new investments into communities that are dependent on fossil fuel jobs. The throughline between all these projects is investing in families and communities. “The utilization of capital is really important to solving the challenges in front of us and an opportunity to level the playing field,” he says. “This stuff costs money.” 

The role requires coordinating across federal agencies, supporting legislative pushes, strategizing to figure out how agencies can work together, and connecting with people outside of government. “We can’t solve the climate crisis unless we invest in the families and communities that are most impacted,” he says.