I want to share a fable: 

In a pond in an overgrown yard in the heart of Alabama, there lived a family of Frogs. Mere meters away, there also lived a calico Cat. 

From the deck, a Girl watched over the creatures. She enjoyed observing the Frogs and stroking the Cat. Ignoring the laws of nature, she believed both species could peacefully coexist. 

That was until she saw the Cat slyly approach the pond.

The next thing the Girl knew, the Cat snatched Frog from the water. “Stop!” yelled the Girl, but the Cat did not stop. The Girl wanted to save the Frogs from the Cat’s bloodthirsty jaws, but instead, she cowered in her seat.

When the Cat returned, the Girl inquired: “Cat, why must you hunt my friends?”

The Cat replied, “I do as my nature urges.”

If you couldn’t guess, this story is about me. For weeks I observed Tito (my neighborhood cat) switch between cuddly angel and laser-focused killer. I grappled with the contradiction of her sweet personality and ruthless hunting. But, eventually, I came to my senses. Cats are predators with irresistible urges to attack. I could not label Tito, or the rest of the natural world, “bad” for following their nature. 

This is my nature: I’m an animal-loving vegan who built our family’s backyard compost bin and leads a coalition of schools to advance sustainability in the South. Born in Montgomery as the daughter of civil rights advocates who named me after Rosa Parks, I grew up on lectures about discrimination. Studying racial injustice gave me clear definitions of right and wrong—a moral code. 

When my fourth-grade teacher taught us about deforestation, I rushed to apply my moral code to the environment. In artful flyers advertising my save-the-rainforest fundraiser, I depicted loggers with scary, squiggly mouths to illustrate the evils of environmental harm. As I learned more about sustainable substitutes, I badgered my family to “make the switch.” Rejecting unnecessary waste, reusing grocery bags, and replacing plastic straws with metal ones became my pitch to all who’d listen.  

My virtue-signaling persona crashed when I realized that I couldn’t practice what I preached. I’m an irrational germaphobe—I can’t share a plate with my own sister and don’t trust dishwashers. When I sipped through my metal straw and tasted day-old smoothie, I instinctively gagged. Metal straws were dead to me, and, suddenly, I was an environmental imposter. If I couldn’t use a reusable straw, how could I expect others to take steps to protect the environment, especially when those steps can be inaccessible or unaffordable? 

Environmental problems, I deduced, didn’t have straightforward solutions. Through research, I discovered how government subsidies hinder consumer’s purchasing power such that many can’t afford sustainable substitutes. I investigated how special interest groups control our energy sector such that in many states, sweet home Alabama included, enforced energy taxes eliminate the economic benefits of transitioning from fossil fuels. Probing the concept of environmental injustice revealed that institutions, not individuals, are the primary problem. The more complexities I discovered, the more interested in (and concerned about) environmental issues I became. 

I began approaching activism by prioritizing educational inquiry instead of absolutes. This was how I could effect change, not simply by using a metal straw. I helped create a theater production about climate change’s impact on marginalized communities. I brought a speaker from a local environmental group to spark discussion within my school. I acted.  

The sun rose and fell twice before the Cat attacked again. This time, the Girl pried open the Cat’s jaws, returning the Frog to safety. 

“I, too,” said the Girl, “do as my nature urges.”

I try, and will continue to try, to prevent harm and to help those in need. My backyard companions showed me my nature, which is to act rather than merely observe. That is the moral of my fable.