Eco-palooza

Petitions irritate me to no end. I don't appreciate being hustled in the middle of an important errand by overly earnest petitioners, who effectively guilt-trip me into signing my illegible signature on a sheet of paper, all the while assuring me that my nominal participation will help end sub-Saharan African AIDS or child poverty or save the endangered black-footed ferrets. I just don't buy it, and I expect that many of you don't buy it either.

Petitions also frustrate me because in my view, they are constant reminders of the inability of advocacy groups to modernize their attempts at generational conversation. As our generation becomes increasingly hard to reach through traditional methods of mobilization, activist organizations aren't responding adequately or quickly; too often they revert to tried and true outreach tactics that, within our age group, become more outdated and stale with each passing day. And when petitions aren't outdated enough, they commercialize, pouring millions into flashy ad campaigns designed to appeal to us. But time and again they fail to realize that in a world of market saturation, calculated branding is the worst route to take — they're selling, but we're sold out.

Such misguided attempts to "reach young people" are ubiquitous these days. For example, Bono's failed RED campaign, which spent $100 million on advertising, only raised $18 million. Because I have worked for the National Resources Defense Council (NRDC), one of the largest environmental organizations in the country, I have often been deemed representative of "our generation." I've been asked over the years to give accurate feedback on how well some of their outreach projects jive with our demographic. Despite their best intentions to consult a real, live "youth," however, I continue to see examples of generational disconnect.

A missed opportunity at last year's Lollapalooza is a good example of this. When we were discussing how best to utilize NRDC's numerous big-name artist contacts at the musical festival, I came out with my ace-card idea, one I was convinced would captivate the elusively hip Generation Y: sweatbands. I suggested we mass-produce green sweatbands and distribute them to everyone, especially the artists, for free. But — and this was the key — they would not be handed out as miniature advertisements for NRDC. In fact, they wouldn't mention NRDC at all. They would only say "green." The message would be neutral and nonspecific, broad enough to include everyone and every environmental issue. The total lack of branding, coupled with just a hint of retro style, would make them appealing to even the most virulent anti-establishment hipster. Moreover, the impact of seeing one's idol and his bandmates all wearing these symbols of environmental solidarity would drive demand through the roof. In my mind, the sweatbands were the perfect weapon: We would bum rush the entire environmental movement by using buzz-marketing and flood the market with our stealth merchandise. Once we snagged support, I thought, we could reveal ourselves as the forward-thinking activists, touting purity of the cause over name recognition and celebrity endorsements. After my pitch, NRDC gave its approval, and in the following months I believed we were about to change the world.

But in the end, generational miscommunication trumped everything. I arrived in Chicago, my head still brimming with dreams of eco-grandeur, and when I arrived at the NRDC tent at Lollapalooza, I immediately asked to see the sweatbands. I was led to the back of the tent, where I found my perfect visions buried in boxes, defaced and destroyed by the unsolicited tampering of some of my superiors (who, in the end, couldn't even make it to the show). The sweatbands were green, but they didn't say "green." Instead, they read "MABO," a clunky acronym for the Move America Beyond Oil campaign, which, unbeknownst to me, had been harnessed to NRDC's presence at Lollapalooza all along. Even worse, the sweatbands had not been distributed to anyone, but left in goodie bags for the artists after their shows, reduced to swag.

With my sweatbands now as relevant as my "Marry Me Lance" T-shirt, I asked if there was anything I could do to help. They suggested that I support the MABO campaign. Amid a haze of severe disappointment, I agreed, and all too soon I realized what that meant: petitions. MABO's goal was to collect 100,000 signatures, which would be sent to President Bush — the reasoning being, I presume, that reversal of his environmental policy (or lack thereof) hinged on the amassment of signatures from concerned and probably stoned Lollapalooza types. After all, what's $100 million in Exxon contributions compared with the "outrage" of 100 million Phish fans?

After two hours of standing in the hot sun shouting, "Hey you! Want to Move America Beyond Oil?" and shoving my petition in people's faces, employing my feminine wiles to get half of them to sign it, the shock of my defeat wore off. So I returned my clipboard, lifted a few sweatbands and garish MABO T-shirts, left the tent and took advantage of my front-row Press Pass.

I realize now that, in the end, it came down to risk. What I saw as innovative, they saw as too risky. Maybe it was asking too much. The sad truth is that big institutional organizations — the ones with the money, power and celebrity contacts — have certain barriers, and while the lines of communication may be open, it often feels like no one's listening. But communication goes both ways, so my only hope is that other frustrated young activists like me don't lose faith and stop trying to reach the adults; they'll hear us sooner or later.