i have friends who are the type to carry the weight of the world on their shoulders-- the 'heroic responsibility' that hpmor has inspired them to claim.

and so, when i listen to the anthropocene reviewed's episode on the seed potatoes of leningrad, my first reaction is unyielding admiration and awe and reverence in the idealism and unwavering commitment to the human project-- and my second, slightly delayed, after turning it over in my mind a little longer-- my second is anger. my second is sorrow. my type 2 thinking takes over, and i put myself in the position of someone with a footnote in the story of the seed bank protectors' lives; a best friend, a sister, a lover, a child. and a part of me is angry. who do you think you are, sacrificing yourself for the human project? who gave you the right to give it all up for something greater? and the horrible feeling that this wasn't enough for you, i wasn't enough for you, you put them over us and they aren't even born yet. and the thought that their sacrifices might have meant little, because we could have found other samples, we could have genetically engineered better crops for God's sake-- and so you've left me behind because you thought you were saving the children of the future, yet you condemned those of the present to grief, to the unbearable weight of living after losing you. and you didn't stop and pause to think that, maybe, those of the future will be able to find a way without these seed potatoes; this is not true of us, now. this is not true of me-- i cannot find a way without you.

but beneath the anger, part of me understands, too well, how you think and how you are. i know that if you're the person capable of making that sacrifice, you probably can't choose otherwise. if you genuinely believe those seeds are the difference between future famine and future flourishing, you cannot bring yourself to eat them, because that is how much you care.

i understand because, to some extent, i am the same.

the burden of heroic responsibility is that once you see the weight, you can't unsee it. you can't un-know that the choice is yours. as that poem goes, you can't un-ring the bell...

so, after it all dissipates, after the acute anger has subsided, what i am quietly angry about is not you, not the choice, but the world. because there's no world where everyone gets what they need.

the survivors needed those who gave their lives to save the seed potatoes of leningrad to stay. the future needed them to sacrifice. both needs are real; both are valid; and someone had to lose.

i just wish, sometimes, that it didn't have to be you.

because, selfishly, who really loses after you are gone?