Before I can tell you about Central Park, you need to know who I believed I was both in life and as a birder. My birding practice was guided by two inherent beliefs: 1) I assumed that I needed an expert to act as my guide through nature, and 2) for the majority of my adult life I assumed that in order to know a subject well I could read a book to learn about it.
These were never assumptions that I spoke out loud, but they summarize who I was in the Spring of 2020, when I drove from my apartment in Hoboken, parked near Manhattan’s 72nd street, and entered Central Park in search of some early spring migrants.
I made my way to a hillside near Strawberry Fields, and when I got there I saw someone scanning the crowns of the oak trees. High above us were shadows and sounds that were indiscernible to me, but to him the shapes were clearly comprehendible and identifiable.
“Anything good,” I asked.
He proceeded to translate sounds into phrases. “Beer beer beer beee.” “Zeeeee-up.” “Bee-buzz-buzz-buzz.” He pointed out the moving shapes: Black-throated Blue Warbler, Northern Parula, Golden-Winged Warbler.
It was a gray day, and the clouds beyond the trees turned the birds into silhouettes. I could identify robins and other birds I saw nearly every day by their shape, but these were warblers, momentary visitors to the park flitting high up in the trees who seemed to deliberately dodge the frame of my binoculars.
Since at the time, Manhattan was ground zero for the Pandemic, I could not ask to bird alongside him. As the birds moved on and he began to back away, I called out, “how’d you learn all of this? What book did you read?”
He lowered his binoculars and looked at me.
“No books,” he said. “Just keep coming out.”
He smiled and left, leaving me perplexed.
When I returned home, instead of listing the birds I had seen, I told my family that I met the Indiana Jones of birding, describing his brown leather jacket, blue jeans, and canvas bag, which he slung over his shoulder, and the sage advice he offered. Throughout that spring morning I pondered what he said, and I decided I wanted to take his advice: instead of learning to bird through reading and by trailing experts around in the field, I wanted to see if what he said was true. Because of the pandemic, I had time in the early mornings that I would likely never have again until my retirement from teaching. I could leave my doorstep in Hoboken and park outside of Central Park in seventeen minutes. My wife told me to go for it.
I remember being scared. What would happen if I saw a bird and couldn’t ID it? What if I misidentified a warbler? What if there was no one around to confirm my guess? I’ve spoken to a lot of birders since then, and I have learned that these are the natural fears that all new birders experience.
And on that first morning, it was as if the Park itself sensed my trepidation and offered me a bird to set me at ease. Approaching Oak Bridge I noticed a red bird fly high up to the top of a Sycamore tree. It perched much higher than any Cardinal I’d ever seen, it had black wings, and it was much bigger than any red bird I’d ever observed. There was really only one possibility: Scarlet Tanager.
I enjoyed a great look, took a breath, and relaxed. This was going to be fun.
So I kept coming out, and just about every day I ran into the man who’d inspired me to be there. One morning we watched a dozen or so White-Throated Sparrows foraging in The Ramble. We bumped into each other as I was attempting to determine a species in The Shakespeare Garden. It turned out to be a White Crowned Sparrow, doubtless the same one he’d seen passing by the previous morning. Another day, he told me to keep my eyes peeled for a Wilson’s Warbler that had been spotted near the steps of the castle, a tip that turned into my life Wilson’s. A report of a Yellow-Breasted Chat led me to the Tupelo Meadows where we greeted each other. (I never did see that bird, though.)
“What’s your name,” he asked me.
“I’m Jeff. What’s yours?”
“Chris.”
Those six weeks are so precious to me. Seeing so many life birds, witnessing the changes of spring migration, and coming to know so many people and places in Central Park were sufficient gifts by themselves, as were the many moments of intimacy I shared with the “common” birds of the city that provided me with solace during a difficult time. I will always be grateful for those Cardinals who didn’t stir as I walked by the holly bush upon which they sang and what-cheered, and the robins who allowed me to watch from only a few steps away as they fed their hatchlings.
I decided to return on the Sunday of Memorial Day weekend. It’s easy to tell when there is a slow migration day: if you are the only one walking around with binoculars, there’s likely no new birds in the park. I stopped by all the areas I’d come to cherish: the Magic Bush, the North Woods, and Summit Rock. When I reached the top of the hill I met a man who told me that according to the radar Tuesday was likely going to be a big day. So I decided I’d sleep in on Monday.
I spent Memorial Day with my family. After dinner, I sat down to read the news. A headline about a birder in Central Park caught my eye. I clicked on the link and as I read the story about a woman who called the police on a black man who had asked her to leash her dog, I thought of Chris. The article said that the birder’s name was Christian Cooper. I continued reading, and when I watched the video he’d posted recording the incident, my suspicions were confirmed: Chris was Christian Cooper.
I was not alone in my anger, sadness, or outrage. Like a lot of other people I wanted to contribute to combating racism and hate, but I knew that my first job was to engage in the process of listening. Although I had confronted my white privilege about a decade earlier when I took a multicultural counseling course, I realized I had slipped into a complacency. Internalizing other Black Birder’s stories, I believed that merely by reading and feeling sympathy for others, by speaking out during dinner time conversations, or by voting for candidates who supported issues like voting rights, I was doing enough. But listening to so many people’s stories reinforced to me that that was not at all true. By remaining silent and inactive on a day-to-day basis, I was enabling a system that was wrong.
During one of the Black Birder discussions, the topic shifted to No Go Zones: places where the panelists did not feel welcome, safe, or comfortable because of racism and history. Chris shared that many of his white friends have asked him to go to Texas to experience one of the greatest movements of birds a person can witness in North America. However, as a gay, black man, Chris did not feel safe going because of the history of violence and discrimiation embedded in that space.
In the 1960’s there was a group of black and white activists who challenged segregation by riding together on buses and travelled to the heart of the south. These Freedom Riders forced the country to witness and to acknowledge the realities of Jim Crow racism, and their solidarity and courage inspired countless others to work for change. Eventually, their actions brought an end to segregation on the nation’s highways. I asked myself, what if there was a diverse group of naturalists who rode together on a bus and traveled to No Go Zones like the ones Chris and the other Black Birders mentioned? What if this group engaged in the work of inspiring more transformative changes so that everyone could explore nature without the threat of violence or racism? This group could call themselves The Freedom Birders.
I reached out to Tykee James, a cofounder of Black Birders Week. We set up a Zoom for an afternoon in August: Tuesday @ 5:30. We talked. We got to know each other. We meandered. We brainstormed. We asked questions and took notes. We continued to meet: every other Tuesday @ 5:30. Each week we progressed, gradually defining and understanding what exactly it would mean to Freedom Bird. A trip of birders consisting of different idinities joining together to trace the route of the Freedom Riders, revisiting the history that they forged, and we would bird along the way. We would also continue to bring attention to the work that still needs to be done to help realize their dream of equality.
But Freedom Birding could be more than that.
We could work to change the culture of birding by establishing more inclusive practices and uncovering the history of the land throughout the continent in order to cultivate naturalists who deliberately acknowledge the past and how it influences the people and the birds in the present. Freedom Birders would create a universal symbol of allyship, and engage in the day-to-day work of transforming birding culture.
Tykee and I continue together as friends and partners, inspired by the positive support that people have shared with us in just the past few months as Freedom Birders has shifted from an idea into a movement. As we continue to work, we are excited to welcome new Freedom Birders who will help us to realize and drive the culture of inclusion that we seek to inspire.
Thinking back to that moment in Central Park, I realize that Chris taught me something beyond anything I could imagine when I asked him how I could learn to identify warblers. Just keep coming out. I once believed that I needed to rely on experts or that answers could be glimpsed only by reading a book. But now I know that in order to create the type of world where everyone has a voice and everyone is valued, I need to just keep coming out. Everyday. It is my responsibility to work for peace.
That is what being a Freedom Birder means to me.
– Jeffrey Train 5/4/21