It’s hard to believe this time six years ago I was just getting settled into my host site at Rachel Carson National Wildlife Refuge. A month earlier I left Charlotte, NC, and moved to the Whitest state you could possibly pick. I didn’t know that before I went; I was just going to the place that gave me my first opportunity. Ward, the manager at RCNWR, was absolutely tickled pink that I spent three months living in Sri Lanka learning about human-elephant conflict. He didn’t mind that I didn’t have any other experience. He thought I would be a good fit, and he knew I would learn from his team. Without hesitation, I said ‘see ya!’ to my family and prepared for a 1700-hour term of service.
I took a few days to drive up to Augusta. I met the MCC staff, all of whom were White. I completed my MCC training with my fellow environmental stewards, all of whom were White. I spoke to a White reporter about MLK Jr.’s legacy from the perspective of a Black American during our MLK Day of Service event. I drove down to the refuge in Wells to meet my new coworkers, all of whom were—you get the point. I grew up outside of Atlanta, a racially and culturally diverse metropolitan area, and now I was in a place where I was the only one.
Surveying for Blanding’s Turtles at Rachel Carson in 2017
When the field teams started later on in the year, I remember seeing one other Black girl—shoutout to Destani—when I attended chainsaw training. We didn’t get to talk much. We were on different teams for training and also I’m shy. Imagine what that feels like. If you can’t imagine the elation at finally seeing yourself reflected in your field, someone wearing the same uniform and doing the same work as you after months of being the only one—well, that is a privilege.
When people say ‘representation matters’ it’s not an empty platitude. If Black kids don’t see themselves reflected in nature, how are they going to grow up to be its caretakers? Last year as a Park Ranger for Blue Ridge Parkway, I gave a program titled “Black People Don’t Do That.” In that program, I looked at the historic exclusion of Black people on our public lands, how it contributes to the idea that ‘Black people don’t do that sh*t’, and what we can do today to show African Americans that outdoor recreation isn’t just ‘White people sh*t,’ public lands are for everyone. Visibility is important! The number of Black people that gas me up after finding out I’m a park ranger??? Makes my whole day. The little girl who saw my soft locs under my flat hat and told me she loved them?? Future ranger for sure.
In every job I’ve had since Maine, I’ve been either outright the only Black person in my office, or the only Black person for some time. After MCC I joined Montana State Parks AmeriCorps (WHY??) where I kept a running count of how many White people asked to touch my hair AND how many just reached to touch my hair without my permission. Then I got some sense and returned to Charlotte where I spent two years as an environmental educator and still only had two Black coworkers—and they weren’t even there at the same time. That job led me to Fort Raleigh National Historic Site where I did have several racist encounters that left me in tears and needing comfort from my White boss (I would die for that man, love you Josh). After that, I traded the beach for the mountains and took the Parkway job in Asheville. The scenery changed but the makeup of my office didn’t. I had to join Outdoor Afro, an organization created specifically to inspire Black connections to the outdoors, and to surround myself with my people.
The point I want to make isn’t that my former coworkers aren’t wonderful, welcoming people who haven’t continually taught me everything I needed to know and fostered my growth. What I want to emphasize is how the loss of cultural connections can lead to a sense of ‘othering.’ The absence of those cultural ties, the isolation from your community—it doesn’t feel good. I don’t want to explain what YLJLYAD means! If you’re the only one then do you truly belong? In a couple of months, I’m headed to the Blue Ridge Parkway for another season. I had originally planned to take a Ranger job in Alaska but life had other plans. I hope to be pleasantly surprised, but I’m pretty sure I’ll be the only Black ranger again. This is the reality of the field I’ve chosen. Ain’t nothing to do but stay Black and die.
Maine Conservation Corps 