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In the winter of 2021, still very much in the midst of the pandemic, I started reading The Collected Poems of Audre Lorde. Lorde was a queer Black writer who had become a literary hero of mine after I read her essays on feminism, sexuality, and racial justice. As I began exploring her poetry, I was immediately struck by how often she used nature to process the political realities of her life. 鈥淟ove Poem鈥� uses erotic descriptions of landscapes to capture the intimacy of her queer relationships. 鈥淭he Brown Menace, or Poem to the Survival of Roaches鈥� celebrates Black resilience, while 鈥淪econd Spring鈥� meditates on the dissonance of seasons changing as we are still mourning the past. Lorde writes:

We have no passions left to love the spring
Who had suffered autumn as we did, alone
Walking through dominions of a browning laughter
Carrying our loneliness our loving and our grief.

When I read 鈥淪econd Spring鈥濃�攚ith the 2020 global uprising against police violence still relatively fresh and just weeks after the attack on the U.S. Capitol鈥攖he poem captured the spiritual exhaustion of the moment, how the Earth sometimes moves faster than our grief does. As a queer Latina writer who had spent years writing about nature, finding Lorde鈥檚 poetry felt like a relief. Finally, I had found a writer who wrote about nature in a way that was inextricable from every system of power we lived in. Before, when I had tried to read anything by someone labeled as a 鈥渘ature writer,鈥� the blatant omission of the forces that so deeply affected my outdoor experiences鈥攚hite supremacy, colonialism, patriarchy鈥攎ade me feel distant from their work.

When Lorde published her first book of poems, her publisher, Dudley Randall, was quick to clarify, 鈥淎udre Lorde is not a nature poet.鈥� I could relate to this impulse to separate her from the genre. Nature writing seemed to be unconcerned with the realities of oppression; it was writing that waxed poetic about the solace of the American landscape without any consideration of the historical context of that land, unbothered by the many communities displaced from it.

Now, however, what counts as nature writing鈥攁nd who identifies as a nature writer鈥攊s beginning to change. In recent years, as the environmental movement has started to grapple with its historical connections to racism and xenophobia, a new generation of poets, essayists, memoirists, and novelists of color is taking up space in a genre that historically has excluded our perspectives. They include Ross Gay, Natalie Diaz, Kim TallBear, Camille Dungy, and Aimee Nezhukumatathil, among many others. They have raised their voices in anthologies like聽The Language of Trees, edited by Katie Holten, and聽A Darker Wilderness, edited by Erin Sharkey. Books like Sabrina Imbler鈥檚聽How Far the Light Reaches聽embody a nature writing that centers the most marginalized and names the violent histories inherent in shaping our relationship to nature. 无码视频 importantly, they remind us that oppressed people have always partnered with nature when seeking our liberation.

In his essay 鈥淎 Family Vacation鈥� in A Darker Wilderness, Glynn Pogue writes about the first seaside enclaves and mountain towns that allowed Black people to own land, and the first Black-owned bed-and-breakfasts that thrived there. In 鈥淐oncentric Memory,鈥� Naima Penniman writes about how forests, swamps, and brushlands gave sanctuary to maroon communities of escaped slaves in Haiti and Latin America. Carl Phillips鈥� piece in The Language of Trees describes how forests became his refuge for queer intimacy, a space that provided 鈥渁 sense of permission at least, to what can feel like鈥攚hat we鈥檝e been made to feel is transgression; if only temporarily, the trees erase the shame that drove us to seek hiddenness in the first place.鈥�

In these pages, nature is inherently political. It is an active ally in the fight against oppression, a place where marginalized people can experience brief moments of life outside systemic trauma. And it鈥檚 a place where we find the examples we need to give us hope for our survival. In How Far the Light Reaches, Imbler compares the 鈥渟upernaturally hardy鈥� resilience of feral goldfish that took over an entire river ecosystem in Southwest Australia鈥攁ll descendants of a handful of pets someone dumped two decades ago鈥攖o the resilience they and their queer community needed to survive and 鈥渉ow each of our becomings felt like an unthinkable triumph.鈥� Imbler writes, 鈥淎 dumped goldfish has no model for what a different and better life might look like, but it finds it anyway. I want to know what it feels like to be unthinkable too, to invent a future that no one expected of you.鈥�

In her book Trace: Memory, History, Race, and the American Landscape, Lauret Savoy writes about the Western Apache (Ndee) word ni, meaning both 鈥渓and鈥� and 鈥渕ind,鈥� which illustrates 鈥渢he inseparability of place and thought.鈥� 鈥淚n 鈥榥i,鈥� earth and thinking converge,鈥� she writes. 鈥淲hat鈥檚 crucial is to think and act with landscapes, as well as about and upon them.鈥�

This insight revealed something I appreciate when reading nature writers of color: They write with landscapes, not only about and upon them. In so many of the environmentalist spaces I have worked in, I鈥檝e often heard about 鈥渟aving鈥� the Earth鈥攁 message that implies a human superiority we don鈥檛 actually possess. Nature writers of color instead emphasize relating with the Earth. They write with an assumption of partnership and solidarity between humans and nature, both working toward a mutual goal of liberation, rather than an uneven relationship in which it鈥檚 humanity鈥檚 task to save everything else.

When Audre Lorde鈥檚 publisher said that she was not a nature writer, he justified his argument by stating that 鈥渉er focus is not on nature, but on feelings and relationships鈥濃�攁s if those concepts were mutually exclusive. Today鈥檚 nature writers of color know differently, and Lorde knew it long ago: Writing about nature is writing about feelings and relationships, because our relationship with nature is constantly related to how we learn and think about ourselves.

Since reading Lorde鈥檚 poetry, I began teaching a workshop called 鈥淩eclaiming Nature Writing.鈥� When I ask participants what they received from the course, an answer I hear often is 鈥減ermission.鈥� Too many writers still believe their stories about race, sexuality, or ancestry don鈥檛 count as nature writing. Once they read writers of color who validate their own unique relationship to nature, they allow themselves to write their own stories.

So much of the recent conversation around diversifying both the publishing industry and the environmental movement has focused on giving people of color 鈥渁 seat at the table.鈥� These new nature writers of color tell stories that change the table entirely. They don鈥檛 simply add a new voice to the discourse; they transform what and who is centered, what core assumptions about nature we first must dispel. In doing so, they provoke a radically important question: Who should have the power to narrate what the Earth wants?

In an essay titled 鈥淏rutes: Meditations on the Myth of the Voiceless,鈥� best-selling author Amitav Ghosh argues against the idea of nature as a 鈥渧oiceless鈥� entity needing humans to stand up and defend it. He believes that nature has been telling us stories far before humans ever could. The task of human storytellers is to simply listen and to find ways to 鈥渋maginatively reassign agency and voice to nonhumans,鈥� Ghosh writes. 鈥淭his is a task at once aesthetic and political鈥攁nd because of the magnitude of the crisis that besets the planet, it is now freighted with the most pressing moral urgency.鈥�

The more I read nature writing from writers of color, the more it鈥檚 clear to me that perhaps instead of seeking out new and innovative ideas to address the ecological crisis, we should be returning to ancient stories, the stories Earth has been telling us for centuries. We can confront this crisis not by trying to save the planet but by listening to it. And in doing so, we may discover that Earth鈥檚 story鈥攐f severed connection and exploitation鈥攊s much the same as our own.

This article was originally published by . It has been published here with permission.

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Amanda Machado is a writer and facilitator who has been published in The Atlantic, The Washington Post, Harper鈥檚 Bazaar, Outside, and other publications. You can learn more about her work at her website or follow her on social media: @amandaemachado0

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