A version of my second entry in this blog, The Angry Black Hunter, was published in Rewire.News in February of 2019.
Check it out HERE!
The Angry Black Hunter
It's been nearly a month since the West Virginia episode of Parts Unknown aired and I'm still pinching myself that I had anything to do with it. I thought the episode was interesting, but in the end I wasn't a huge fan of how it came together. That is a discussion for another time though.
I've been absolutely overwhelmed with the response to my article on being a black hunter. I've gotten thanks and offers to come hunt from over a dozen people from here in WV all the way to San Diego. Bonkers. And while I only received one email accusing me of being a sadistic, murder loving, animal killer (who claimed my article pushed them to vegetarianism), most of the people who wrote me were very friendly. I'm most proud of the fact that several people said that reading my perspective helped open their eyes to things they hadn't thought about. This is what I want to focus here, in my follow up to those who've read and thought about my article.
Let's begin in Lexington, Kentucky, in a lecture hall at the University of Kentucky in February of 2018. I had heard Dr. Carolyn Finney speak several times before, but when she put up this image I was like, "Oh shit! Dr. Finney ain't playing witchall!" She went on to talk about the things she's angry about, careful to point out the difference between anger and bitterness, with the former leading to the later and the later being toxic. The talk was amazing and ended with a standing ovation, but there was one line in particularly that jolted my consciousness out of a general fanboy malaise. "All this land was stolen". Dr. Finney repeated this line several times and by the third time the room lay completely still under a blanket of deep deep discomfort. To quote Lena Waithe at the end of episode 6 season 2 of Master of None, "I'm straight shook right now!"
The genocide, displacement, terrorism, and devastation of indigenous people in this hemisphere has always deeply bothered me. But more than the more tangible realities of white "civilizing" of this land is the almost complete absence of acknowledging these acts as the essential ingredient to the United States of America. All this land was stolen. It's an inescapable fact of this nation, yet, more than slavery, the consciousness of this country seems to be able to forget this reality at times when it is most pertinent to remember.
Which brings me back to hunting in the US and the demographics of land "ownership" in rural parts of the country. Before +90% of white land ownership that we have today could be established, millions of native individuals, and hundreds of cultures had to be destroyed. That process began from the moment Europeans set foot in this hemisphere, but was formalized into settler law in 1830. The Indian Removal Act, signed into law by one of this country's first psychopaths in chief, Andrew Jackson, precipitated, among other awful things, the trail of tears, the forced march of dozens of thousands of native folks from southern territories resulting in several thousands dying along the way. This sort of thing happened all over this land after 1830 and by the late 19th century so many indigenous communities had been devastated beyond what generations a centuries before would have recognized.
I think about this reality every time I interact with white land owners around issues of access to their property. Do they know this history? Is it part of their day to day reality the same way that repairing fencing, feeding animals, making hay, planting veggies, setting up tree stands, building sheds, mowing grass, paying taxes, and taking their products to market is? When people extended me an invitation to come hunt on their land after reading my article do they think about how the original stewards of the land would react to their claim to the land? Do they even know the name of the people who lived on their land before they got their?
So what does justice look like in the face of genocide? It's certainly not a quick fix. The government could restore large portions of the land back to the original peoples of the land, but that would be a violent restitution (because of the need to cling to white supremacy) requiring a fundamental reorganization, both physically and ideologically, of the way in which the US functions. But that's what needed, perhaps in reverse order. The ideological functioning of the United States of America needs to change in order to prepare the people of the land to make good on the justice denied so many people. "Free your mind and your ass will follow" (Funkadelic).
And if I had one collective response to those who've reached out to express words of thanks and encouragement about my article it would be just that, do right by the ideas I've expressed by learning about the realities of the land in which you live. "Free your mind and your ass will follow". Yes, you are miseducated and yes, it was done on purpose, and yes, you have a responsibility as the stewards of the spoils of a racist war you didn't start (white ancestors did) to learn this history.
Most white people I've met in my life and engaged in with issues of race and racism suck at talking through those issues. And I don't mean that they're only slightly awkward with some smatterings of good insights, I mean that 99% of the white people I've met would struggle to get a D if they took a class on talking through race. Here are a couple of responses I've gotten on my article from well meaning folk who struggle to talk about blackness with an actual black person:
"I agree with you that outdoor spaces are highly racialized, and I think your concerns about “hunting while black” are legitimate."
"One of my first thoughts was "this guy is way outside the box" and I love it! Not only because you are a black man living in West Virginia who hunts, but add to that - has a PhD. in ecology and teaches in the department of geography, too! "
"Hey, I read your article about...what was it about...hunting in West Virginia. Good stuff!"
Here's the thing though, when you consider the legacy of separation of races that lives on today, the fact that most people's day to day lives - where they learn, work, worship, and play - are highly segregated, the awkwardness of the above quotes and the persistent forgetfulness of indigenous genocide makes sense. I am the first African American faculty member in my department, I was the first African American to earn a Ph.D. in ecology from department, and starting in the fall I will be the only African American tenure-track faculty in my college of 293. Most white people I have sustained interactions with could probably count on one hand how many similar sustained interactions they've had with a person of color (POC).
White folks don't have many peers that are POC, which is about the same for POC with one important distinction; POC overwhelming live in or under societies built to serve white supremacy. And I mean white supremacy literally, not David Duke's version, but a must more subtle and pervasive ideal that white folks and whiteness come first above all else. I wrote in my article that black folks must learn their white folks, but what I didn't say was that white folks are under no obligation to do the same in order to live comfortably. That last part is what most white people have and continue to do, remain ignorant of how POC live and perceive the world. I'm thankful for the impact my article had, but in 2018 it shouldn't strike so many people as new and insightful. And it's that feeling that lends a most bitter taste to the sweetness of thanks and compliments I've gotten these last month.
White people shouldn't wait for POC to tell them how they feel about living in this world. So many of us have, and continue to tell our stories, educating the beneficiaries of our oppression and exclusion in hopes that white people will do the work of learning on their own, without our help, without a reminder of our humanity. I get the resistance to do this. Learning about white supremacy must be hard for a white person, in the same way learning Disney has a long history of being incredibly racist (sorry, not sorry) is hard. Our conceptions of what we value and, inevitably, our identities are threatened. For POC this feeling isn't new and neither is the process of working through the ways in which your racial identity is used as a pejorative in society isn't new either. I can count on two hands the number of white folks I've met who've done similar work around whiteness.
I was somewhat nice to the fragile racial sensibilities of white folks in my Parts Unknown article. I had to be in order to get my ideas published, but nice is not how I feel about whiteness. Like Dr. Finney I'm angry. I'm angry that the original people of these lands have been and continue to be stripped of their sovereignty. I'm angry the civilization that's replaced them is really good at ignoring genocide, but, of course, it'd have to be to last this long. I'm angry that horrific white violence has shaped the way so many POC live in this country. It's that violence that ultimately drove me to write the article, not an affinity for the white folks who've let me share a portion of what they own. I'm angry that so many well meaning, self described moderate/liberal white folks daily choose not to see the giant festering wounds of trauma their ancestors helped construct and perpetuate; and that the other side of that trauma is the physical and emotional comfort they enjoy as white people in America.
I imagine most white people who read my article will treat it the same way they've treated insights into race for most of their lives, as something they value in the moment, but ultimately fail to use as motivation to actually do better. And I'm somewhat (only just) sympathetic to those who actually face the reality of tackling racism within their thinking and day-to-day lives. Remaining ignorant to racism, especially structural racism, verses waking up to, acknowledging and moving to change racism is like choosing between riding in first class on a transcontinental flight verses having to write an entire dissertation on astrobiology while seated in the middle seat by the bathroom next to a screaming child and a heavy sleeper/cuddler who snores with his mouth open. Why would anyone choose the later? The catch of course is, one forfeits any legitimate claims of progressive values if one never engages with or acknowledges the fundamentally unfair system that created their comfort and the structural discomfort of others.
American society will not fundamentally change unless white people embrace the discomfort of whiteness and reconcile its legacy. POC are largely out of ideas on how to facilitate this change in white people and, more importantly we are out of patience. Our stories will continue to be told and those stories will continue to be available to white people because whiteness demands access to all things except self reflection. If you read my Parts Unknown article or experience any sort of perspective from a person of color that you deem moving, but don't follow up with extending that learning into action and self-reflection then I'd rather you stay in first class and not gaze in appreciation of how well the folks in economy are handling our conditions. And if you find yourself paralyzed with the implications of what you're learning, not sure how to turn those lessons into action, don't worry, that just means your mind isn't yet free enough from whiteness to let your ass follow it to justice.
Hunting While Black
Jonathan carrying a white-tailed deer at Lost Creek Farm during the 2017 hunting season
*This article was originally published HERE as part of the online content for the popular TV Show Parts Unknown with Anthony Bourdain*
I had never hunted before moving to West Virginia, never tasted venison, never skinned or gutted anything larger than a channel catfish. But moving to the Mountain State triggered an interest in wild food, foraging, hunting, and the skills needed to get out and take advantage of the food landscape.
There was only one problem: I am a 250-pound, bald, bearded black man in a largely rural state with less than 5 percent people of color.
The fall of 2012 was a mixture of emotions and transition for my then-girlfriend (now wife) and me. She had completed her Ph.D. and been offered a faculty job at West Virginia University. We had finally found a house in Morgantown we wanted to buy, and I was negotiating my postdoc offer from the geography department at WVU while trying to figure out the most romantic and creative way to propose. Compounding my anxiety was the constant reminder that the state I was moving to was predominantly white and presumably not the most welcoming place for black folks.
Here’s how virtually every conversation I had with my black friends and family before my move went:
What part of western Virginia are you moving to, again?
Morgantown. But it’s not western Virginia. It’s West Virginia.
Oh … Oh, shit, are you sure you want to move there?
No, I’m not sure, but we both got jobs at the university, and that’s hard to pass up.
No doubt. I hear you. But West Virginia? Good luck, brotha.
My first two attempts at hunting were awkward and successful and among the most memorable experiences of my life. A mentor colleague in the wildlife department was gracious enough to invite me once to hunt on his land just outside town and again after he and his wife moved to a larger plot farther out. On that first hunt, I didn’t see a single deer and mistook the sound of squirrels foraging in dry leaves for the footsteps of a deer. My host didn’t know me well enough to let me borrow one of his rifles, so I just tried to soak up as much of the experience as I could. I’ve yet to see a more beautiful predawn in the woods.
Two years later, he trusted me with his spare rifle, and we went out again to hunt deer. Two and a half hours into the hunt, I was so lost in my insecurity of not having any camo that I failed to notice a grazing deer less than 30 yards away, broadside, head down. As the animal’s two vertical antlers came into view I silently moaned in disappointment. A spike buck—too old to harvest. My only consolation was the young male was never quite sure I was there, despite his becoming increasingly agitated as he grazed within 15 yards of me on his way down the hill.
It was the middle of the night in late September—two years after my second hunt—and my dreams were a constant replay of the landscape we would be hunting in at dawn, a landscape filled with deer willing to graciously fill my freezer.
“Wake up, dude. It’s time!” Mike Costello, a co-owner of Lost Creek Farm, said as he walked past me sleeping on his futon. Damn it! I had overslept, and it was almost 7 a.m.—too late to get into a spot without being seen by our quarry. Time for plan B: Hunt any deer naive enough to walk close to the house. It could work. Twelve hours ago, I could have thrown a rock from the porch and hit half a dozen deer. Perhaps they’ll think the house is a safe place amid the growing number of rifle shots echoing in the valley. We still have a shot at this.
Jonathan Hall never hunted before moving to West Virginia.
After breakfast, Mike grabbed his rifle, and we walked quietly outside, scanning the hill just west of the house. No sooner than we stepped down from the porch, we noticed five deer tracking our progress from 150 yards away. Busted! Three of them immediately took off, triggering another two we hadn’t seen to do the same. One more doe trotted off, while the final doe remained, nervously keeping an eye on our slow approach. Three minutes later, Mike fired the fatal shot.
As we walked up the hill to begin the work of processing her, a flood of emotions hit me. First, relief that Mike’s shot ended the doe’s life exactly where she stood, before the final echoes of his .270 had even faded. Next, gratitude for the social and ecological web that made this the easiest and most successful hunt of my life. And last, as I placed my hand on the deer to give thanks for her sacrifice, pride.
I had set out to learn to hunt five years ago. This hunt was only my third attempt, yet here I was, a nerdy black kid raised in the Baltimore suburbs standing over a freshly killed white-tailed deer in the middle of rural West Virginia.
My hunting and foraging education began with some household names—Hank Shaw, Steven Rinella, Samuel Thayer, Daniel Vitalis. Despite the incredibly valuable information they shared with me, I struggled to articulate a nagging frustration that surfaced whenever I heard or read these men say, “Just get out there and do it.”
That was fine for white guys, but I’m not about to drive anywhere in rural America with a rifle in the back of my Subaru and hike into a public space where white people have rifles aimed at brown animals. Not after Philando Castile was killed because he told a police officer he had a concealed firearm. Not after Rodney Bruce Black shot and killed Garrick and Carl Hopkins from his living room window in 2014 in Cabell County, W.Va., because he thought the brothers were trespassing on his property. It didn’t matter that the brothers were inspecting a shed on their own property, which they had just purchased. Those black men died because they didn’t get the benefit of the doubt. They died because Americans associate blackness with danger and criminality.
On a trip to my local spring, a spot I located on Vitalis’ FindASpring.com, I pulled in behind a car sporting a “Blue lives matter” bumper sticker. Was the lovely family of five there, like me, for the pristine water? Nope. They were there to teach their middle-school-age son how to fire a pistol at a tree stump next to the spring. Sorry, Daniel Vitalis, for some of us, tap water is safer than spring water. Adventuring in the outdoors just isn’t the same for black people.
This hunt with Vince Slabe was only the third time Jonathan had attempted to harvest a deer.
Last year I bought Black Faces, White Spaces: Reimagining the Relationship of African Americans to the Great Outdoors, a book published in 2014 by geography professor, actor and activist Carolyn Finney. Within the first 20 pages, I deeply regretted not buying it sooner.
Outdoor spaces—national and state parks, hunting and fishing areas and others—like all spaces in the U.S., are highly racialized, as Finney brilliantly articulates. Her work helped me face my anxieties, move through them, and be more confident in these woods with these white folks.
By no means are white West Virginians the raging racists many of my friends feared. And while I can’t remember a week since moving here when I didn’t see a Confederate flag, the white folks I’ve met have been incredibly friendly, welcoming and kind.
Microaggressions? Sure. It’s the United States of America, a country that fights to maintain its ignorance of its white supremacist foundations. Macroaggressions? You bet. Over 60 million people voted for a man who began his presidential campaign with the claim that Mexico is sending rapists across the border.
When you’re black, you learn to read white folks as a matter of safety and survival.
Despite the reality of racism and consequential racial cynicism, I’ve made connections with some of the most awesome, welcoming white folks I’ve ever encountered. People like my dear friends Amy Dawson and Mike Costello, who hosted my third deer hunt and invited me to share one of the most amazing dinners of my life. At my favorite Saturday morning hangout, the Morgantown Farmers Market, I’ve befriended farmers like the Stemlers who, after my hunt with Mike, invited me to do the same on their gorgeous farm. The Stemlers make some of the best pork I’ve ever had, which has inspired me to learn how to make my own sausage. The Sicklers have also become good friends, and Poppa Sickler, when he heard I hunted on the Stemlers’ land, busted my chops about not hunting on his land first. Next year, Poppa.
I could go on about the Evanses and the delicious free-range chicken and warm hugs I get from them at every farmers market or how I hope Gene comes back because her goat meat is everything, or how one Sunday afternoon I got a phone call from Todd asking if I could help him butcher a road-killed yearling doe he and his wife saw get struck in the head on their morning walk. Or how I’ve asked both my neighbors to let me harvest chestnuts and pine pollen from their respective properties after listening to a Hank Shaw podcast.
Jonathan keeps deer meat from his hunts in his freezer to grill up on demand.
I’ve had to build a race-conscious network of people to access hunting spaces because, like so many black folks before me, the spaces we seek are almost never prepared to deal with us well—not without explanation or pretext. The overwhelming majority of rural space in the U.S. is owned by white people, and that’s not accidental. But the racial violence of the past that shaped our landscapes and the momentum of that spatial violence that maintains white-majority spaces have never been inevitable.
Who we expect to see in outdoor spaces can change, should change, and is changing. More important, we’ve always been here—even my family and even in West Virginia.
Before I moved to Morgantown, I found a photograph of my great-great-granduncle Joseph J. Nickerson, who started the first black Baptist church in Hinton, W.Va., in 1919. We are indeed out here with these white folks—the racist few, the colorblind many (not a compliment), and the somewhat surprising number of welcoming ones who want to build community with different types of people—and that’s a beautiful thing.
I can’t wait for deer season this fall. Will I test on public land the skills I’ve been building? No way. But what I will do is continue to tap into the network of mentors and friends who see my blackness and accept me for our common interests.
My path to becoming a hunter looks different from most West Virginians’, but that’s OK. I’ll just add the extra work of learning to hunt while black to my reparations tab. Now excuse me while I pull some deer burger from my freezer. I’m about to be out here with these white folks, grilling up something wild and wonderful.