Turning a Passion into a Profession
Drew Lanham
On chill autumn mornings as I sit in a tree stand deer hunting, I seem to spend as much time watching white-throated sparrows as I do waiting for whitetails. Both birding and hunting are seamless parts of my love for nature. That I happen to be a black man so enraptured by wild things does not fit so seamlessly with what many expected I would become—or should be.
Since I grew up on a farm in the middle of the Sumter National Forest in Edgefield, South Carolina, the outdoors was my playground and classroom. Nature was not somewhere to go; we lived in the midst of it. My parents, who were teachers, surrounded me with learning opportunities. One day my second-grade teacher handed out blue mimeographed pictures of birds for us to color, and from that moment I had an ornithological obsession. I came to know the hiding places and habits of all sorts of wild things and learned the names of most. In my early teen years, I hunted some, mainly rabbits and squirrels, but spent most of my time watching birds. I began the listing quest early and often spent my allowance on field guides and cheap binoculars, imagining faraway places and exotic species. Every new bird I learned was like another world opening to me. Looking back at these circumstances, it would seem inevitable that I would become who I am.
But the inevitable was delayed by roadblocks and detours. Hardly anyone supported the idea that I could study wildlife for a living. Instead, I was indoctrinated and aggressively recruited, along with the legions of other over-achieving black students, to take on engineering. Though my dream of a career in wildlife never died, it was constantly doused by well-meaning minority mentors who saw my ultimate promise in turbine design, not tanagers. Though I was on schedule after three years as a mechanical engineering major, the prospect of abandoning my wild dreams finally pushed me over the edge. A chance meeting with Dr. Jim Schindler, a zoology professor who saw something in me beyond the expected, convinced me that my passion could be my profession.
Three degrees later, a tenured position, a respectable life list, and a few successes in the deer woods have validated my gamble. Proving to the doubters that there were other things a science-savvy black kid could do besides engineering is still a source of pride. I take every opportunity to preach my conversion.
Unfortunately, few like me have had the opportunity to be so inspired. Birding and hunting, like so many nature-based activities in this country, are practiced by whites. A report by John Robinson showed that most white birders have never encountered a black birder in the field.
Black wildlife professionals are even rarer than the hobbyists. Only a handful of us are teaching or conducting research at universities. In the ranks of state and federal wildlife biologists, I’d bet the numbers aren’t much better. Years ago, I sat at a restaurant with three of my African-American professorial peers. Relishing the moment and our ethnic ecologist exclusivity, we joked about the potential for disaster, some catastrophe taking out the entire population of black wildlife professors at a luncheon booth. Years later, things have not improved much. We are still rarer than many of the species we study or chase.
And so as I live the fantasy, pursuing whitetails and warblers with equal abandon, I wish more black people would do the same, or at least give it a chance. I don’t think that choice is the sole determinant in the dearth of African-American participation. It is also due to limited early exposure, lackluster institutional efforts at inclusion, and reluctant acceptance of nontraditional roles and careers within black communities. Even though the double takes have never stopped, I have yet to meet a birder or a hunter afield who, once we began to exchange stories of the “chase,” did not happily share his passion for wild things and wild places.
Are there solutions to the demographic imbalance? I think so. In this no-child-left-behind-virtual-reality world, we have to do a better job of showing young people of color the wonders that nature holds: that the struggles of migration, predation, and reproduction mean survival—for real. An exchange of binoculars for X-Boxes® might be a good thing. A day in a deer stand instead of daze in front of the television would help. Those of us in the know must educate the influential adults who are not. This means acquainting guidance and career counselors with all the possibilities, not just the traditional tracks of engineering and medicine. None of us deserves to be bound by stereotype or narrowly defined expectations. Understanding the connections between all of us and nature is critical if conservation is to be effective. Everyone of every color should be engaged. The investment in our natural future demands no less.
Drew Lanham of Seneca, South Carolina, is an associate professor of wildlife biology at Clemson University. His most recent life bird was a wayward Florida snail kite, seen in the South Carolina Low Country.
