I never thought I would work for the Forest Service.
I was in a class called Diversity Initiatives on Public Lands in spring of 2017. I had decided to take the course when I met with the professor, on the suggestion of a peer, to discuss the frontier myth.
The Frontier Myth, as presented by Richard Slotkin, argues that our understanding of the nation’s identity hinges on the connections we make to the idea of the West, the vast stretches of untamed landscape, wild and free. Our understanding of what it means to American lies somewhere in that idea of an absence of civilization, on the peaks of mountains, in the valleys beneath them, and somewhere wandering through what we understand to be wilderness.
Slotkin explains that we tell these stories of American survival, of pulling ourselves up by our boot straps, of rugged individualism, of tenacious desire and accomplishment. These stories are dependent on our understanding of environment, on our adaptation to that understanding, and our performance of that role.
This, my first encounter with the Frontier Myth, and subsequent encounters with authors such as Carolyn Finney, Sarah Jaquette Ray, Roxane Dunbar-Ortiz, Ned Blackhawk, Paul Outka, Jake Kosek, and advocates such as Carrot Quinn, Betty Reid Soskin, Rue Mapp, Shelton Johnson, Jose Gonzales, Summer Michaud-Skog, and Nicole Brown, among others, which has led me to better understand perspectives that differ from my own, and from the dominant story of the American outdoors.
These authors and advocates challenge the idea that the American outdoors is truly a public space. They explore the complexities of our history, and the ways our dominant narrative has excluded particular people.
As a doctoral candidate, I look at the ways race, gender, and class alter our access to, or experience of, the outdoors. This has involved a lot of hiking, chatting with people about why they go to the woods, but more so it has been a lot of reading and contemplating. Whose story is the one we are taught? Who is the hero? What parts are missing?
I’ve spent a lot of time considering my own position as a cis-gendered, educated white woman. I’ve been afforded many privileges that others do not have. I have privileges that I may never be able to recognize, because for me it’s just normal. That’s true for all of us. We all have biases. It is for this reason that I work so hard at trying to listen.
And that’s what I do as the Youth Engagement Strategy Program Manager on the Willamette National Forest. My job is to listen to community partners and our employees to better understand the needs and barriers that exist so that as I write the new Youth Engagement Strategy, I can recognize what parts of the system aren’t working for the public we serve and look for ways to make the agency and people on public lands more representative of the diversity of this country.
But, coming into this position from an academic background, I have a lot of privileges that help me do my job. I have spent years in Anthropology and Folklore courses learning the importance of listening to people’s stories. I have been trained in social theory that helps me better recognize systems of power that lead to exclusion.
I never thought I would work for the Forest Service because I never thought that my skills were necessary or appreciated. I’m not an archaeologist, or a botanist. I am not trained in GIS or to complete a forest plan. I cannot fight fire. The class I took in spring 2017 was both an introduction to a new perspective and an opportunity.
In the course, I was taught to examine things for their strengths and weaknesses, not only in theory, but more importantly in practice. I was introduced to a new means of applying my knowledge in both a more practical and direct way. And, I was introduced to the possibilities of a career in the Forest Service.
The professor was asked to share the position, and I instantly knew I had to apply. I doubted I was qualified. I questioned if the timing was right as I was getting close to writing my dissertation. I was unsure of what the job even was, but I applied anyway. There was something so tempting about putting a foot in the door at a land management agency, the possibility of exploring the application of my skills while helping to work toward a more equitable outdoors.
