Going outdoors and other dangerous expeditions

As a consequence of personal experiences in the outdoors, in wilderness and in urban landscapes, as a lesbian, as a white woman whose partner of the past fifteen years is of mixed descent (African, Blackfoot/Siksika, and Irish), as the co-parent of an African American male, I have been struggling to articulate through narrative the peculiar and systematic ways in which safe access to the outdoors, which I define as any space outside of locked doors in domestic shelters, is curtailed in our white supremacist, male-dominated, heterosexist society. What follows is a series of personal and cultural narratives exploring this theme.

My interest is to stimulate discussion of how the outdoors remains gendered as male space, racialized as white space, and sexualized as heterosexual space, from the simple everyday suburban family chores of dad and brother cutting the grass versus mom and sister washing the dishes to outdoor adventures such as hiking on wilderness trails. The "woman=nature" equation established under patriarchy and championed by some ecofeminists in no way reflects actual opportunities for girls and women to enjoy safe access to the outdoors. The outdoors tenaciously remains propertied white male territory; public space is fiercely controlled by heterosexist domination; land is divided up according to racist practices that grant white people the greatest access to the most land.

How does the interplay of oppressions shape perception of, participation in, and relationship to the outdoors? These personal narratives and historical, cultural perspectives are written in an effort to break the silence around the role of social domination in determining connection to the outdoors.

Mommy, Can I Go Out?

Mommy, mommy! Can I go out and play?

No, I need you to help me in here.

I'm sick of being stuck in the house.

But you can't go out alone.

But Mommy, I want to go outside.

No, I don't want to worry about you out there.

MO-OO-OM-MEE!

No, it's too late.

No, it's getting dark.

No, I don't have time to take you outside right now.

But you told Bobby he can go out.

Yes, he can go out as long as he doesn't stay out too late.

Growing Up

I remember racing across busy suburban intersections in the sprawl of new housing developments-split levels, ranch houses, swimming pools, and rectangular, shaved lawns-to the wild tangle and musk of the forest. The fact that the whole area had once been forest inhabited by the First Americans was something I was only dimly aware of at the time. My sister Kathy, our best friend, Shawn, and I understood instinctively that once we arrived at the enormous maple that dominated the old farmyard of the nature center we were utterly transformed. We were no longer three awkward girls underfoot in our torn jeans and sneakers; we were brave adventurers seeking the mighty secrets of the unexplored rim of reality

We headed out without maps or guidebooks. We stumbled down faded paths avoiding the main trails. We struck out cross-country, weaving our way through the wild, following in each other's footsteps. Every landmark of that forest we named according to our own sense of belonging. One of our favorite places was Cape Shanky (SHawn, ANn, and KathY), an outpost we marked with a pillowcase billowing on the end of a stick, where cattails taller than my sister riding piggyback on my shoulders leaned out over the reservoir. Yes, reservoir, for this was no real wilderness area. This was a little second-growth woods marking the only farmland that side of Philadelphia allowed to go back to forest.

We climbed trees barefoot to the very top in order to sight the enemy-any human approaching from any direction was the enemy-knowing if we were caught we would confront the frowns of folks who thought girls should not be covered with mud. Our naked feet danced with the quick excitement of liberation. We had leapt across the boundary of appropriate behavior to be free, to be fully in charge of our own destinies there between the trees and meadow. I can remember reaching up to stroke the taut muscles of the ironwood, or stretching out flat on my stomach to peer inside spring beauties, or rolling onto my back to watch the birds wheel between Earth and sky. I remember the feeling of cold mud when the reservoir began to shrink in midsummer, and I can remember my mother's reprimands when we returned home long past dark, creeping in the backdoor.

Her anger masked fear, but we heard that, too. We received the message that night and girls were not to be together. We were told without words that we were the targets of danger; my brothers never received the same sort of scolding. But it was worth it to us to take the risk because the joy of those stolen moments running free in the forest were not echoed anywhere else-not in front of the daily reruns on the square-faced babysitter blaring Gilligan's Island and McHale Navy everyday after school, not at the dinner table where we hid our peas in paper napkins, not sitting still with our hands on our desks, fingers pointed to make "little Christmas trees" in the boring row of grade after grade, backs straight in our little desks in front of those tired old blackboards, which were really green as the leaves of the pin oak. Escaping to the nature center was our only chance in the trim houses of Leave It To Beaver America.