What is at issue is the erasure of historical context and the complex narratives of leisure and place occurring outside of a white normalizing perspective, particularly at national sites of history and heritage authorized for public consumption. Questions such as âWho is allowed to define, create, or enter designated sites of culture and heritage?â and âWho is allowed to partake in leisure activities and where are they allowed?â are central to this discussion.
Visiting parks has long been a family tradition for Americans and during much of the postwar era visits to parks grew at a faster pace than the population, leading to problems of overcrowding. However, the vast majority of national park visitors are white.
(Weber and Sultana 2013a, 444â445)
Weber and Sultana find the predominance of white visitors disturbing because it runs counter to the ideal of the national park system as being built on principles of democracy and freedom. They state, âThe future of Americaâs National Park System, as with many valued cultural institutions, requires the increased support of a multicultural populationâ (Weber and Sultana 2013a, 446). In other words, they propose that attracting underrepresented visitor groups to the park is a social imperative that will save and preserve the system for everyone.
The situation as outlined by Weber and Sultana is certainly compelling. However, I question the need to focus on the number of âminorityâ (non-white) visitors at national parks as an issue of primary concern. Nor do I think that simultaneously tying the underrepresentation of non-white âminorityâ visitors at national parks sites to a crisis in the future economic stability of the national park system is an appropriate focus. In both instances the articulated problemâdecreasing visitor numbers and the future economic stability of the park systemârests squarely on the underrepresented groups or âminorityâ communities, which are characterized and labeled as both the problem and the solution to the problem. Instead, processes of exclusion should be more firmly addressed, especially in context with the U.S. national park system and associated histories of discrimination, segregation, and removal of non-white visitors and stakeholder communities.
The case of the Ahwahneechee Indian communities, in what is now recognized as the state of California, is a stark reminder of how expulsion and exclusion shape space in the Americas. Policies and practices aimed at regulating Indian populations in designated Anglo-American spaces have been in effect in California since it became a state in 1850. In 1851, U.S. soldiers expelled the Ahwahneechee Indians from their lands and renamed their valley âYosemiteâ (Cronon 1995; Jacoby 2003; Spence 1999). In 1864 President Abraham Lincoln signed the Yosemite Act, making Yosemite one of the oldest designated public lands set aside for conservation. In 1872 Yellowstone National Park was created. In these events, a widely repeated, sequential narrative of national parkland was born and institutionalized: set aside public land; grant federal ownership; remove local or existing inhabitants; and finally, remove usage rights on the land such as for hunting or fishing to preserve the landscape in âpristineâ conditionâas it was assumed to have existed prior to European arrival.
The same power dynamics in this narrative of Yosemite and Yellowstone are found in the ways in which African American leisure and access to recreation has been structured through a practice of exclusion since transatlantic slavery. National parks practiced segregation based on U.S. laws that upheld racial separation. In their 1896 Plessy v. Ferguson decision, the U.S. Supreme Court sanctioned racial segregation as the law of the land. Until passage of the Civil Rights Act in 1964, freedom of movement and the ability to utilize resources in both public and private facilities was legally denied to anyone identified as Black. Spaces such as hotels, swimming pools, public parks, gas stations, and restaurants were designated as white-only spaces.
For example, throughout Southern national parks, including Shenandoah and Great Smokey Mountain, segregated facilities were present (Shumaker 2009; Young 2009). In 1939, Lewis Mountain Negro Area opened at Shenandoah National Park in Virginia. It was in operation as a Black campground through the 1940s. Additionally, the master plan for the Great Smokey Mountains National Park located on border of Tennessee and North Carolina designated âcoloredâ campgrounds in the 1930s. At the Mammoth Cave site in Kentucky there was segregated lodging and separate tours based on race, as well as efforts to remove an early African American presence (Algeo 2013). At Little Talbot Island in Florida, formerly a state park, now part of Timucuan Ecological and Historic Preserve, there were âcolored beachesâ and white-only lodging (OâBrien 2012). Finally, in Arkansas at Hot Springs Reservation (established in 1832), later renamed Hot Springs National Park (established in 1921), nearly all bathhouses had been segregated by the early 1880s with the establishment of Jim Crow laws. However, around the start of the twentieth century, African American organizations were allowed to build places specifically for Black bathers at Hot Springs National Park. Black-designated sites were located in less prestigious areas of the park, and today sit outside the recognized âBath House Rowâ Historic Landmark District (Shumaker 2009). Eventually, in December 1945, the Washington office of the National Park Service issued a general bulletin to all parks that mandated that all facilities in national parks be desegregated.
Meanwhile, the efforts by Blacks to claim spaces distinct from whites often came under scrutiny, censure, ire, and sometimes even sabotage by whites. Although places such as Pitt County, North Carolina, Rosewood, Florida, and Tulsa, Oklahoma boasted leisure activities such as amusement parks, theaters, churches, eating establishments, and swimming for African Americans in the 1920s and 1930s, each of these places were completely destroyed by white fear of Black agency (Ellsworth 1992; GonzĂĄlez-Tennant 2018; Kahrl 2013).
It is evident from these limited examples that even cultural institutions such as state and national parks, founded on ideals of democracy and justice, faced challenges with respect to race. Today, far too many interpretive narratives of park and heritage sites fail to reflect the complex story of American history, which includes the challenges of segregation and desegregation. Rather, they focus on heroic stories of white settlement of North America. These heroic stories privilege pilgrims, pioneers, and homesteaders; plantation owners; military heroes and presidents; freedom seekers and explorers. They neglect the technological, cultural, moral, gendered, and racial histories and tensions of engagement with diverse communities (Jackson 2011a, 2011b, 2014; Finney 2014; Shumaker 2009). At issue, however, is not only a need to focus on the history and heritage of African Americans within the national story but also the fact that U.S. policy and legal codes were based on exclusion, which was manifest even in sites like the national parks, designated for public use. And yet this book demonstrates that African American resistance, refusal, and agency in the face of racism and exclusionary laws are underrepresented experiences and knowledges that can significantly enhance interpretive narratives at cultural institutions and heritage sites.