Corporate interests are destroying our natural resources. That’s why I snuck into the Wilson family home and chained myself to their Christmas tree.

I make my first encounter with Papa Wilson after he eats a midnight snack. From afar, I watch him throw away a half-eaten granola bar. “Seems wasteful, don’t you think?” I ask him. He jumps back in startlement. This is a normal reaction, since people don’t think about the little ways they harm the environment until I tell them point-blank.

“I’m calling the cops,” he threatens me.

I don’t want my environmentalist message to get muddled with touchy police subject matter, so I let him know: “This will be a peaceful protest. No need to get a third party involved.”

Papa Wilson thinks for a minute. “Would you be willing to watch my daughter on Tuesday nights?” he asks. “Our babysitter is kind of flaky.”

I acquiesce, since I could use the extra cash and children are the future of the movement. Papa Wilson wakes up his wife and daughter, and I introduce myself. “This is only temporary until next Christmas,” I tell them. “For the most part, just pretend like I’m not even here.”

“Doesn’t that defeat the entire purpose?” Mama Wilson counters.

“You’re absolutely right,” I respond. “From this point forward, I shall sing environmentalist hymns about Mother Nature’s majestic curves twenty-four seven in my loudest belt.”

I was always told you meet your true family through activism. I didn’t believe it until I was included in the Wilsons’ Christmas card. If you look closely, I’m buried in the pine needles behind Mama Wilson’s right shoulder—brightly smiling with a sense of belonging.

Little Annie Wilson has been begging her parents for a pony. I know my efforts inspired her carbon-neutral choice of transportation. My work here is done. Next mission: TV room sit-in. I’m refusing to leave until the Wilsons either switch it to energy-saving mode or stop taping over my C-SPAN reruns.