A few years ago in an online grad class, another student made a statement that floored me. “LGBTQ people can’t work in national parks,” she wrote.
As a US national park ranger and a bisexual woman, I was confused and slightly offended. Was this woman saying I didn’t exist? That I shouldn’t have my job?
For context, we had read a decade old piece written by a gay man who had a long career at state parks as a biologist and experienced significant homophobia at work. His story was tragic and upsetting.
Based on this man’s experience (which was decades prior and not in national parks), my fellow student made sweeping assumptions about national parks. She lamented that national parks didn’t accept anyone LGBTQ+ in their ranks and advised that no one who identified as such would feel safe or should even try working at one.
The student was making some pretty big leaps with her logic, but, after my initial irritation, I realized that she was disturbed at the homophobia we’d read about and maybe wasn’t thinking clearly after. Perhaps she herself was LGBTQ+ and had always dreamed of working at a national park. And now here was someone throwing a bucket of homophobic water on the flames of her dreams. (Again, the author of the article didn’t even work at a national park, but whatever, I’m trying to be understanding here.)
I was glad the course was online because I had time to process my feelings and come up with a solution before responding. I realized that our professor, though well-intentioned, was falling into the trap of only relaying LGBTQ+ disaster stories. “You want representation? Here’s a story about someone who never fit in and was miserable their entire career. Feel represented!”
Now, I’m not suggesting we forget or not share stories of struggle. I was thrilled that this man had the courage to speak out about the harassment and bigotry he faced; often remembering and addressing the problems of the past can be the only way to move forward. But, as with any big problem (as a science educator I think about how demotivating an onslaught of terrifying facts about climate change can be, for example) just making people upset isn’t enough to incite action. You have to give them a little hope as well.
So here’s my infusion of hopeful representation, which I shared with the class and with the pessimistic student: my experience in the National Park Service was the exact opposite of that man’s decades ago in his state parks and biologist circles.
I have worked with openly gay and lesbian and bisexual and trans national park rangers. I have walked in a Pride march in my park service uniform, arm and arm with allies and other queer folk, at the request of my supervisor, who announced that now that Stonewall was a national park site we were duty-bound as national park rangers to celebrate Pride.
I have seen my LGBTQ+ friends and colleagues treated with respect at their national park jobs, even working in leadership roles (I worked for a lesbian park superintendent and never heard a single colleague make a homophobic comment about her or her wife). Personally, I found that the NPS was a safe space to be queer and never felt like I had to change or hide to be accepted by my supervisors or colleagues.
I also didn’t come out to every person I worked with, and being a bisexual, cisgendered woman is different from being other things–let’s not be like that student in my class and make the mistake of thinking that one person’s experience is representative of everyone’s or that it will determine what ours will be.
Research backs up my personal experience of a diverse workforce. A 2017 internal NPS study found that 4.9 percent of employees asked identified as not being straight, 0.1 percent as transgender, and 0.3 percent as nonbinary. Combined, that’s higher than the national average of 4.5 percent of Americans identifying as LGBT according to a Gallup poll conducted the same year. The percentage of Americans identifying as LGBTQ+ is on the rise though, up to 7.1 percent in 2022. The NPS needs to continue to grow a more diverse workforce in all areas.
I am not saying that all park employees are accepting of LGBTQ+ people and their rights or that the organization is perfect by any stretch. There is still a lot of work to be done for the NPS to have a diverse workforce. What I am saying is that my fellow student’s statement was wrong: you absolutely can be LGBTQ+ and work in national parks.
If you are LGBTQ+ and want to be a national park ranger or work in biology at a state park or in any other outdoor career, know that you may experience homophobia or transphobia or other forms of discrimination. But also know that you may find acceptance. I did, and I know many other queer folk who have as well. Remember that positive stories exist too, and don’t let anyone frighten you out of pursuing your dreams.
If you are looking for more personal experiences of being LGBTQ+ in national parks, check out this video that Alaskan NPS put out in 2012.
To learn more about how US National Parks protect and preserve LBGTQ+ heritage, explore the parks listed here.
Outstanding post however I was wondering if you could write
a litte more on this subject? I’d be very grateful if you
could elaborate a little bit further. Cheers!
I’m thrilled you enjoyed my essay enough that you want to read more. I’m working on posts that expand on LGBTQ+ representation in parks as well as my own personal journey. Check back here at The Ranger Desk to read future posts. Thanks for your comment and for reading.
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Thanks so much for reading and for the supportive feedback. You’re welcome to share my post, if you want to.
Bel article, je l’ai partagé avec mes amis.
Merci pour la reponse positive. J’apprecie beaucoup le soutien.