“They always ask the wrong questions.”
When I first learned about the plight of bison across North America, I had so many questions.
Prior to a writing retreat in Yellowstone National Park, I knew nothing of how bison were systemically exterminated as colonists spread out across the land, claiming inhabited places as their own—how millions of bison were killed as a means of starving the Native people who depended on them. Our group of writers met with locals who had witnessed the more recent efforts to bring bison back from the brink of extinction. And then we met people on both sides of the debate over whether bison, which have finally regained a healthy population, now concentrated in Yellowstone, should be allowed to roam freely or hunted when they cross park lines.
Image: A bison skull, still partially covered in fur, lying in Yellowstone National Park.
In learning about the bison, and the many connected issues concerning the delicate ecosystem of Yellowstone, and the way it’s all changing as a result of over-visitation and climate change and colonialism, I saw a world of new stories I wanted to absorb and then be a part of sharing. If I wanted to be an environmental journalist, it seemed, I should be here where all of this was going on.
Unfortunately, I had yet to see a bison with my own eyes.
“The writers who come here—they always ask the wrong questions,” said one of our trip leaders.
She’d go with them sometimes, these writers who weren’t from around these parts. She’d accompany them to meet with members of local tribes, ranchers, and park employees. And they’d often ask the wrong questions, because they didn’t know these people, or this land, or the nuances of these complicated issues.
“How many acres do you have here?” is a question journalists often ask ranchers—a question anyone from here would know to never ask. It’s like asking someone how much money is in their checking account.
These journalists would parachute in from far away to extract stories that would often be riddled with inaccuracies and missing important details.
The trip leader, on the other hand, had been there on a mission to transfer bison from the park to a nearby reservation. She grew up in Montana and was deeply involved in the efforts to return bison to the people who understood them best. She knew this place because it was home.
She knew what questions to ask.
I actually thought about moving to Montana after my week of immersion in environmental and cultural issues facing the park and the surrounding region. I was captivated by how much was going on there, and I wanted to write about it.
But I went home to Portland, Oregon with this new seed of curiosity. The people I met on that trip were so deeply invested in the land on which they lived and worked. There are no bison in Portland. But I suspected there were other stories I could tell.
When I got home and dug a little deeper into the place I thought I knew inside and out, I discovered some urgent issues facing the city. That’s what led me to write about how the proposed I-5 expansion in Portland will dump more pollution into a historically black neighborhood that already suffers from poor air quality. This city known for sustainability was preparing to take a big step back and dump millions into infrastructure that encourages our reliance on fossil fuels.
This story was new to me. I had to research and learn a lot before I could write about it. But I knew the landscape on which I was searching for information, and I discovered how much there is to discover about a place I thought I knew so well.
Last week, I stared at dark, cloudy videos of protesters in gas masks and police in riot gear on my phone. I flipped through photos of people with their heads tilted back, mouths twisted in anguish, as medics poured saline solution in their eyes. I could almost smell it through the video, having been made familiar with the smell of tear gas several months ago during the first nights of protest following the murder of George Floyd. But now I’m 3,000 miles away from Portland. I was sitting on the deck of a vacation rental in upstate New York. The sound of lake water lapping at the rocky beach mixed with the bangs and cries from a faraway place that still feels so close.
The federal response to Portlanders protesting systemic racism and police violence against black people is now being covered in national news, by journalists and photographers who just arrived after 30 or 40 or 50 nights of protest.
I should be there. I think. I should be home.
Of course, we can’t be everywhere, always. This trip to visit family on the east coast felt like a necessary one, and I’m glad I’m here. And I don’t mean to discourage anyone from writing about anything that happens outside of their hometown.
I write about travel often. I go places and write about my experiences, surrounded by sights and smells and people that are all new to me. There is value in writing from a place of newness. That perspective of discovery is refreshing and necessary. Reading that perspective can provide a transfer of curiosity, one newcomer to another.
And skilled reporters have an important job when they travel to a place to cover the news and dig into important stories. The world will always need more people to go to the places where things are happening, and they won’t always be the people who know those places best.
But also, in a time when we’re all at home a lot more than we’re away, our connection to the place we know best should not be forgotten.
For those of us who are accustomed to going places to write things, it can be difficult to shift our sensors for new stories to the cracks of the familiar. There may not be a new place to explore, but how is the place you’re in changing? Or how is it stubbornly staying the same?
Perhaps home is the best place for a writer to be right now. Writing about home doesn’t have to mean staying in the lane of what you already know. On the contrary, our job is to move beyond that. The ability to look beyond what you know, within a place you know, can expose you and your readers to subtle shifts or the subtleties of big shifts that others might miss.
In a few weeks, I’ll drive back across the country. I have some ideas for stories I’d like to write along the way. I might stop in Montana; I still haven’t seen a bison. I might even ask the wrong questions of the places I pass through. That’s not always a bad thing, as long as we’re willing to be corrected.
But I’m eager to get home and to write from a place of connection.
“Is Portland as bad as they say on the news?” inquired a friend in Connecticut the other day.
It wasn’t the right question. But at least they asked.
That’s all for today, friends! But speaking of writing from home, check out this big list of resources for finding stories when you’re stuck at home.
I’ll be back in your inbox on Friday with a Q&A.