The quest to reclaim natural spaces

Detroit Audubon Flyway - Summer - 2020

Our nation is in a calamitous situation right now.  Not only are we experiencing the ravages of the Covid-19 pandemic killing thousands all over the world and especially virulent in the United States, we are also undergoing seismic social upheaval in the form of protests as yet more African Americans are being killed by the police. Yet in an unparalleled moment of domestic and global solidarity, people of every class, race and gender are marching with African Americans to demand that the lives of George Floyd, Ahmad Arbery, Breona Taylor, Rayshawn Brooks, and most recently, Elijah McClain, do not join the ghosts  of countless black bodies who have disappeared and been unavenged for centuries within the American landscape. 

In the midst of all this turmoil, I have had to revisit the crux of pain that situates itself in how it signifies to be an urban environmentalist at the intersection of my calling as an African American woman who is an ecological minister. Though I am “officially” retired from the professional pulpit as an ordained clergywoman in two mainstream denominations – one predominately European American (United Methodist Church) and the other, African American (African Methodist Episcopal) and have not served a local parish since 2014, I still continue in ministry as I tend my community in urban green spaces of environmental awareness. And while I am passionately devoted to partnering with other environmental sojourners in urban spaces in this vein, I admit that this current surge of Black protest is severely traumatizing, reopening many old wounds in several ways.

Primarily, the urban landscape is again deemed abjectly unsafe, not just because one could become infected by someone with Covid 19, but also having to decide whether I should stay close to home (and psychologically and culturally safe) in my own neighborhood or if I dare to venture to spaces within which I will certainly be subject to the “white gaze”. This phenomenon is what sociologists define as the anxiety that whites feel when they subjectively surmise that black people do not belong anywhere that is overwhelmingly a white, racial enclave. Should I find myself in such an area, I must immediately adopt a certain demeanor so as not to call attention to my blackness, in any way that might be perceived as a threat to white sensibilities. Because I was reared to be a confident, self-actualized woman, this has sometimes been dangerously problematic. For I’m of the mind, that like John Wesley, “the world is my parish.”

It is not unusual that I have experienced this problem, for it has and continues to happen to many black people. This need to adopt benign, unthreatening behaviors requires an exhaustive array of patterns that must be momentarily ascertained so that white people can be made to feel “safe” around me and other black folks.

But my driving question is: when do I get to feel safe? I can recall countless incidents wherein I felt imperiled in environments outside the city that were considered “white” and prayed to get away unscathed.

Once my family went on a community field trip to Niagara Falls organized by the block club, of which my mother was the president. While my mother and the other parents were setting up the picnic area for our refreshments and games, my sister and I decided to take one of the tours from the picnic site to observe the Falls up close. The little excursion started off well. Laughing excitedly, we boarded the cute little trolley and settled into a seat. We were having fun trading jabs, oblivious to how the landscape began to change. The trolley slowly ambled deeper into the woods, as sunlight playfully splashed mottled green hues off the leaves. It began to rain, and the sunny sky turned to dark clouds.  Soon the mist of the Falls was in view, a lovely sight to behold. But my pleasure fled as many on the trolley started staring at us, the only two black girls on the little train. We were without adult protection, as our mother was back at the picnic site. I could not enjoy the rushing spectacle of the Falls, because I was afraid to get back on the trolley. Tightly grasping my sister’s hand, I pulled her close to me as we boarded to travel back through all that lush vegetation, now growing dark, presenting itself as something sinister. No one spoke to us, and many just stared in an unfriendly manner. When we finally got back to our picnic area, my mom swept us up into her arms, relieved to see that no harm had befallen her babies.

Was this an isolated, exaggerated happenstance? I wonder. For, my own paternal grandfather who had the audacity to rise above his “station”, bought the cotton plantation on which he and the family were sharecroppers. In his industriousness, he made his own charcoal, had a little lean-to general store, and lent money to many regardless of race. One day, a white farmer came to the house and asked my grandfather if he could speak to him about a personal matter. The man, claiming that he didn’t want the “women folks” to overhear the conversation, persuaded my grandfather to walk with him to a clearing in the woods. When they arrived, the Ku Klux Klan was there to greet him. They accused him of being uppity, not knowing his place. They doused him with kerosene and set him ablaze. While that was enough to traumatize anyone, my father had followed him to the woods, and he witnessed the entire thing. This kind of trauma is not unusual for black folks in the United States, and there are myriad stories of our people being terrorized, burned out of our properties, killed and disrespected, both in rural and urban settings. 

Finally, this trauma that is deeply rooted in the generational psyche of African American culture, is even more severely problematic when one considers how to invite our people into environmental spaces, persuasively convincing them that it is safe to enjoy nature. The recent incident between the African American birder Christian Cooper and a white woman, Amy Cooper (no relation) serves as a modern-day prime example, that we must consistently be guarded in nature spaces that should be available to all. Many may already know that Ms. Cooper was incensed when Christian Cooper asked her to leash her dog because he was wildly tearing through a Central Park area specifically set aside for watching birds. Had Mr. Cooper not been wise to record this woman’s racist antics, claiming that he was assaulting her, he could have wound up as another black person killed by police. This incident, and so many others of black bodies in so-called “spaces of nature” – like the woods where my grandfather perished – gives many African American people deeply introspective pause, to consider where they will walk, camp out, picnic, jog, or bike. Until these assaults on black bodies are assuaged it will remain difficult for my people to freely access natural spaces, wherever our whims take us. 

Even so, there is nothing that can dissuade me from continuing my quest to cajole, persuade, implore and teach people that the call to environmental justice is needed, as never before. As I have often said, we only inhabit this one earth, home to us all. I will not deprive myself of the song of the chickadee, the sheer pleasure to feel the soft mist of spring rain on my cheeks, nor the thrill of catching a Monarch butterfly hovering in my garden. I will continue to embody the full measure of my calling as a tenacious, African American woman who is committed to engaging critical care of God’s earth, for myself and everyone who will listen to work for its betterment. The price of earth destruction is too high, not to do so. In whatever ways you are moved, I invite you to join me in this eco-ministry challenge. 

            Pheasant comes to call

   Red cockscomb flashes, trembling

           Startled peahens sigh

                               - Ventra Asana

The haiku above reflects a relationship and love that I’ve long harbored for one of Detroit’s illustrious city birds.  Many years ago, before my mother passed and I was caring for her in her home on the east side, there were numerous days when I felt a longing to be freed of the responsibility of cleaning, cooking, serving meals and trips to the doctor to check out vital signs. Added to these caretaker duties I was simultaneously teaching comparative religion at a community college, doing research for a doctorate degree and serving as an associate pastor at a church.  Often, when I felt I was at the end of my endurance, I would hear a pheasant calling in the distance. Startled the first time I heard it, I ran to the back-porch window and there was the beautiful bird staring up at me. Even though I was inside, I held my breath, standing there spellbound. I wanted the moment to last indefinitely. Looking back, I cannot recall the countless times that the pheasant came to call. But each time, it seemed to show up at a moment when I was the most in despair. It somehow seemed to me that it sensed my mood, and made its astonishing appearance to cheer my soul, to inform me that I was special in the calling I’d undertaken to be there for my mother in a time of suffering.

This remembrance of the pheasant’s silent sentry in my life, only serves to emphasize how important it is to establish connections with nature, and particularly relationship with birds in the urban context. As an ecology minister, one who situates the value of earth care at the center of my ministerial calling, I believe that the protection of nature is a divine mandate, not a holy suggestion. The United Methodist Church states this idea well in its Social Principles, which read in part: “All creation is the Lord’s, and we are responsible for the ways in which we use and abuse it. Water, air, soil, minerals, energy resources, plants, animal life, and space are to be valued and conserved because they are God’s creation and not solely because they are useful to human beings.  God has granted us stewardship of creation.” The United Methodist Church is one of many Christian faith communities that have specific theological guidelines for earth care, and there are also similar ones in non-Christian faith communities. However, whether one is Christian, Muslim, Jewish, Buddhist, Sikh, Jain or of other faiths, or atheist or agnostic, the idea of caring for our planet home is something that we all must consider, even in these difficult times of catastrophic weather events and decimation of our planet home.

Though I’m now retired from the professional pulpit, I deem that I will be an ecology minister forever, as I still practice what I term “divine earth care” seeking whatever opportunities that present themselves in which I can show solidarity to steward the earth. Thus, it was a joyful moment when I was recently offered the chance to work with Detroit Audubon as a Michigan State University employee in partnership with Detroit Bird City. 

The program will create urban meadows in some of Detroit’s community parks to provide sanctuary for birds. I was appalled to discover that over four billion birds have become extinct over the past 50 years, and to learn about some of the causes contributing to their demise. After I met with the team, I was eager to get started on my role as a community liaison to identify key neighborhood partners who could serve as ambassadors to advocate for urban meadows.

However, the task appears as a bit herculean in that the demographic of Detroit’s impoverished neighborhoods houses people who may not share the same fervor to provide homes for birds. It is not so much that people don’t care about birds, but rather, that there are other pressing and dire social needs that take precedence over concerns for nature. And yet in the short time that I’ve talked to people at community meetings, social gatherings, and one on one, I have yet to recall one instance in which the person did not recollect some encounter with a bird, nostalgically sharing their bird stories with me. One person recounted a moment when she saw a blue “blob” lying on the sidewalk as she descended the stairs to take her garbage can to the curb. On closer inspection she saw that the blob was a blue jay. Not sure if she should pick it up, she softly nudged it with the hem of her shirt to see if it might stir. The bird made no response, and just as she decided to lift it up, it moved and flew away. She says she stood there a long time watching it soar, glad that it had survived for another day. There were lots of little incidences like this, in which Detroiters tenderly shared a bird story.

But when I made the case at gatherings that we were looking for people to be bird ambassadors to build meadows in urban parks, I got a bit of resistance. Many told me that they needed a host of things, the least of which were meadows. These included playgrounds, gardens, walking paths and other accoutrements. Some firmly resist the idea of any meadows at all, because they want to see traditional parks, especially since they are hopeful that property values will rise. So, the issue of creating meadows in community parks within impoverished neighborhoods is multifaceted and complex.

Nonetheless, I’m inspired to learn that there are some individuals that are poised to help Detroit Bird City in this valiant endeavor. I’m encouraged to have identified some community activists that are willing to entertain the notion that urban meadows are valuable and can serve both birds and people. These persons have also shared with me that the inclusion of community benefit agreements – wherein improvements to existing areas as identified by residents – could serve as incentives to motivate them to care for meadows and to teach about their importance to urban ecology.  As an ecotheologian and ecominister it is in the sacred space of these encounters that I feel a profound hope and encouragement to continue advocating for the creation of meadows as bird sanctuaries in urban spaces. I see this as an important aspect of divine earth care, one that exemplifies this intentional practice as spiritual mandate and not as holy suggestion, compelling us to continue to campaign for species that cannot do it for themselves.