Are We Worth Saving?
A kitchen-table debate, a telepathic gorilla, and the case for humanity
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The other night at the dinner table, my kids, aged 11 and seven, got into it — like, seriously into it. Not over who gets the biggest scoop of ice cream or who gets to design the next MagnaTile house (both common spats), but about whether or not humans are essential for the survival of Earth.
My oldest chimed in with all the confidence only youth can bring to a philosophical debate, “Humans aren’t important at all. The Earth would be better off without us.” The other, younger and slightly more idealistic (or maybe just more attached to our species), countered, “Uhm, yeah, of course we’re important! — insert giant eye roll — We build things. We take care of pets.”
As I sat there, watching their debate unfold, spoon in hand, I felt slightly exposed — like they were holding up a mirror to all of us adults who have been here longer and still haven’t figured out our place in it all. I’ll be honest, I was really pulling for Team Human, but my thoughts nagged, “Well, we’ve never really brought our A-game, and I’m sure we’re not getting the part if we audition for ‘Earth’s Favorite Species.’”
The words of Ishmael came rushing back. I remember when my mom requested it from our local library as a new release. We had to get in line behind others in our community, and I had to get in line behind Mom to read the much-anticipated book by Daniel Quinn. On that initial read, I was a 13-year-old middle schooler, and it’s honestly been awhile since I’ve given it any thought. But now that same core question was up for debate at my kitchen table — What makes humans think we’re the be-all-end-all?
In the early 90s, I didn’t have the language yet for “anthropocentrism” or “systems,” but suddenly, there I was, sitting on my red-and-white quilt-topped bed, Siamese cat curled up in my lap, completely stunned that a telepathic gorilla had just laid out a whole alternate lens for understanding human history — one that didn’t put us front and center.
It wasn’t exactly the first time I’d taken issue with the framing of ‘progress and civilization.’ I was a well-read kid, highly intuitive, and I’d already been wrestling with the idea that our ‘rightful place’ was at the top of the food chain. I’d sold my fair share of those ‘Save the Whales’ pencils in first grade. Even then it seemed like the whale problem was an us problem. It never felt like I was getting the full story.
Raised in a highly pensive, secular household, there was no dogma that said we were the pinnacle, the chosen ones, or the apex species Earth had been biding its time for. My home culture didn’t include a creation myth that explains not just how the world began, but why humans are here. Every version I’d encountered seemed to take for granted that humans were the main character, conveniently cast in the starring role by — ourselves. And, I already had my suspicions that maybe more, more, more was not the metric by which we should measure success.
But Quinn didn’t just casually nudge that pedestal; he kicked it over and splintered it.
Despite me already being on the cusp of awareness, on my initial reading, his words felt less like empowerment, and more like a sucker punch. Because if we’d been telling ourselves the same destructive lie for thousands of years — then how the hell were we supposed to fix any of it? Industrial agriculture. Species extinction. Climate collapse. It wasn’t just one bad law or one bad habit. It was the whole scaffolding. The story itself.
I remember looking out my window at the suburb I lived in, the cars filling the school parking lot across the street, and thinking, “We’re so far gone.”
Now I felt called to join my kids’ debate. I wanted to jump in with a nuanced monologue about stewardship, love, culture, the arts, and all the reasons humans have value. I thought of those whale-saving pencils, the article I just wrote for a client pushing B-Corps, my mind scrambling for every shred of value. But before I could even make my case, my mind pulled a U-ey and started dismantling my defense. Conservation efforts and B-Corps feel more like reactions than rewrites. Quinn’s critique still stands, 30+ years later.
It felt like I was just trying to defend a cheater, who everyone knows should have been DQ’d long ago. Get this dodgy player out of the tournament — ain’t nobody got time for this.
But it’s not that I think humans are inherently bad. I don’t. I think we’re confused and complicated, deeply capable of compassion and connection, but also disturbingly talented at justifying cruelty when it benefits us. We’ve created breathtaking beauty and unfathomable destruction — often with the same hands, in the same lifetime. All of us. Individually and as a collective.
The truth is, I used to root for humanity like it was a long shot I’d bought a win ticket on. “We’ll come around!” I’d quip. “We just need the right leadership, the right laws, the right wake-up call.” But now, I feel more like the disillusioned trainer who just watched the horse scratch for the 10th straight race. Are you really gonna give this horse another mount, or just put this loser out to pasture?
When I had reflected on Quinn’s words over the years, I had deliberately chosen to rest on two points that felt hopeful. He offered up a major conceptual shift all those decades ago. Modern civilization is not synonymous with humanity itself. This break in thinking allows us to critique and let go of unsustainable systems, including modernity, without condemning humanity as a whole.
It is a source of empowerment — a liberating reframing that has its sights set on an evolution that goes beyond destructive norms. This is a framework that invites reimagination and systemic change rather than nihilism.
My other takeaway rested not just on philosophical critique, but numbers. The stark and undeniable math. The massive explosion in human presence, primarily due to modernity, has produced a shocking figure — that wild mammals make up just 2% of mammalian biomass, and we and our domesticated animals make up the remainder. This isn’t just alarming — it’s a signal that modernity is ecologically incompatible and destined to fail.
In the world outside my kitchen, the scene of our lively and rather amateur debate, our climate is collapsing, wealth inequality is absurd, and the very systems that were supposed to help us thrive — democracy, education, healthcare — are buckling under the weight of profit and apathy. It’s worse than my young teen mind could fathom. In my lifetime, we have invented so many new ways to consume, distract, and distance ourselves from the hard work we’d need to engage in to affect meaningful change.
Like, are we really helping? Or are we just trying to convince ourselves that we matter?
I don’t want to be that person who just shrugs and tells my daughters, “Well, this is the way it is,” especially while I’m sat here paralyzed by internal conflict, thinking to myself, “If given the option, no way is Earth swipin’ right on humanity.” Trees don’t need us. Bees, rivers, mountains, fungi — they got this. We’re the ones always showing up late to the party, getting wasted, trashing the place, and then complaining about the mess once the hangover’s in full effect.
It made me wonder if we’re worth saving at all.
Then, I snap out of it. My pendulum of thought reverses course. My focus shifts back to my kids. Their expressions, their intensity, their furrowed brows. There’s something unbearably tender about being human. The way we make each other laugh, the humility of self-deprecation, even the defiant optimism of planting trees we’ll never see fully grown.
The fact that my kids are arguing over something so big, long lasting, and so unresolvable is giving me something akin to a flicker of hope. Not because they’ll figure it out, but because it’s their young and unformed humanity that’s made them care enough to ask and give it a thought. They’re not numbed by cynicism (yet). They haven’t learned to scroll past extinction events like headlines on a feed. They still feel something.
Now, as a parent, as someone more entangled in the system than I’d ever planned to be, my lessons from Ishmael have struck an even deeper chord. Ishmael didn’t accuse. He observed. He laid bare the myth we’ve been swimming in. A myth we’re all still in. You, me, my kids, and yours, too. How can we teach them to care and question and be kind, while the dominant story still tells us we’re the hero of every scene? It’s a real mind-bender. Not whether we’re important, but whether we’ll ever consider a re-write that doesn’t put us at the center of the plot.
Later that night, after the dishes were done and the house had quieted down, I saw them snuggled up together on the couch, their faces dimly lit by the TV.
“What are you guys watching?”
Little looks at me, “A documemory about coral reefs.” I watch as the reef turns ghost white on the screen. “Why is it dying?” she gasps.
Biggie, without skipping a beat, “Because we made it too hot.” No bitterness. No blame. Just… knowing.
They sat there in silence, absorbing the damage in real-time. I was tempted to tell them to turn it off, to watch something lighter, funnier, but I didn’t. Maybe they needed to see it. Maybe they already know the truth of where we’re at — that to love the Earth means to grieve it, too.
And maybe that’s our, humanity’s, sliver of redemption. Not our inventions, or our productivity, and definitely not our ability to deepfake our way into denial. But our capacity to care. To reflect. To argue over dinner about our place in the world.
So no, we’re not essential for Earth’s survival. But I’m certain humans are essential for the survival of humanity.
And that might have to be enough to keep rooting for us.
Thanks for reading and being here! Let’s have a heart to heart: my writing may be free, but my rent’s not. Hit the button to keep me caffeinated. Can’t swing it? Totally cool. There’s a heartwarming drawing from my daughter waiting for you either way, and you’re always welcome to pour your heart out in the comments below.