By Kelly Farrell
Four statues in a park forever changed my life.
Statues are everywhere. In cities around the world, public squares and buildings are filled with monumental sculptures honoring individuals or representing historic moments. How many times do we walk right past, paying them little or no attention?
One day last summer, though, four statues spoke to me. I’m not talking about those mime-like performance artists who paint their faces and pretend to be sculptures, delighting tourists with unexpected interaction. No, I’m actually referring to bronze-cast, life-sized human replicas, whose placement and message overwhelmed me in a way I did not anticipate.
It was my first visit to New York City, and I had one free day to spend with my best buddy who lives there. Micah crammed our schedule full of essential experiences: We did the fun stuff—Central Park, Rockefeller Center, Times Square, the Brooklyn Bridge—and also toured more solemn historic sites like Ground Zero and Battery Park.
If this were your day, what do you think would be most memorable? For me, every place on the itinerary was more surreal and moving than I could have imagined, but an unplanned venture produced the most powerful moments: When we happened upon tiny Christopher Park, in the heart of the Greenwich Village Historic District, I walked in with no expectation of the interpretive experience I was about to have.
The moment I realized where we stood, and saw the four statues, I was instantly lost in a memory from a decade ago:
“Mom, Dad, there’s something I want you to know…”
These words have been the start of countless conversations in homes everywhere. Chances are that you’ve said them, for any number of reasons, perhaps to announce a pregnancy, share news of a job offer, or ask for help in facing addiction.
For me, the words that followed that opening statement…eventually…after a long, awkward silence and deep, courage-gathering breath, were, “I’m gay.”
It was the scariest thing I’ve ever done.
I sat tense, flinching almost. Heart thumping. Mind racing. Already I was exhausted. Months of mental rehearsal had left me spent. It took tremendous energy to prepare for this evening. There was no question of my identity—of that I was sure—but everything else about this dialogue was left to uncertainty. On sleepless nights, I’d stand out under the stars, praying for guidance and wondering about possible outcomes.
Mostly I prepared for anger and rejection. Sitting at my parents’ kitchen table, I awaited their censure. I was ready for words like “regret” and “disappointment.” I expected yelling—or worse, silence—or perhaps even an invitation to leave.
I worried too much. Mom and Dad fumbled for words, but generally made an effort to communicate a loving response. They didn’t understand it, but they were willing to try. I wish all my coming out stories had gone this well.
I chose to come out to my parents. It was a purposeful act of audacity. I would tell them myself, on my own terms, in my own time.
Avoiding the topic, I reasoned, would create an uncomfortable, ever-growing “elephant in the room.” Worse, I feared they might get the news as hearsay from others. Either situation might force them into confronting me about it, putting me on the defensive and likely sending a message that I felt guilt or shame for being who I am.
Initiating the conversation, then, was a proactive move, allowing me to share my identity in a positive light, to literally say, “This is who I am, I’m comfortable in my skin, I am not ashamed, and I have found love.”
***
“A penny for your thoughts.” Micah’s quiet voice brought me back to the present. We tended to explore places separately, each wandering at our own pace. When he looked across the park, though, and saw me crumpled on a park bench with tears streaming down my face, it was time to talk.
“I’m a professional interpreter.” I replied, “The work I do is about real people and real places and real purpose. I’ve traveled the world. I’ve seen thousands of interpretive exhibits and commemorative sculptures.
“But this,” I lightly laid my palm over two statues’ hands, “is the only time I’ve encountered public interpretation of this story.”
You see, Christopher Park is adjacent to the Stonewall Inn, where an uprising in 1969 is credited with igniting the gay civil rights movement. According to the New York City Department of Parks & Recreation:
On June 28, 1969, there was rioting on Christopher Street when police raided the Stonewall Inn, a popular gay establishment, in order to curb liquor law violations. Over the next few days, in what is known as the Stonewall Rebellion, several thousand rioters filled the streets to protest the police action. Thereafter, Christopher Park became a symbol of the gay liberation movement.”
Thirty years later, the Stonewall Inn, Christopher Park, and the surrounding neighborhood streets were placed on the New York State Register of Historic Places and added to the National Register. Among the 70,000 listings in the National Register, Stonewall was “the first such historic site recognizing the national significance and contributions of lesbians and gay men,” said M. John Berry, assistant secretary of the Department of the Interior. “Let it forever be remembered,” Berry declared, “That here–on this spot–men and women stood proud, they stood fast, so that we may be who we are, we may work where we will, live where we choose and love whom our hearts desire.”
In 1992, sculptor George Segal witnessed the public installation of his work, four statues collectively titled “Gay Liberation Monument.” Set in Christopher Park, the piece features two standing males and two seated females. Their positions seem comfortable, suggesting deep discussion and revealing the most simple, yet poignant displays of affection—a touch on the shoulder, a brush of two hands. Segal’s style was noted to be “specific, evocative, and understated, showing the public comfort and freedom to which the gay liberation movement aspired.”
Persons who identify as lesbian, gay, bisexual, or transgendered (commonly referred to as LGBT) are often referred to as a “community,” but does such a thing even exist? There are no unifying interests, values, or politics among all LGBT people. Some suggest that having a minority gender identity or sexual orientation are the common threads, but even those concepts exist on a spectrum, making them tough to define in the broadest terms of “community.”
Despite significant cultural changes following Stonewall, many LGBT people in America still live in isolation, in fear of trusting others, and in conflict about how to find—let alone exist in—anything they can call a community. Others completely eschew an LGBT community, preferring to live completely assimilated lives in their larger circles of citizenship. They see this as a more effective strategy for being perceived and accepted as normal. Collectively, we seek a wide range of ideals in advocating for civil rights, finding companionship, forming families, and establishing homes.
What makes a community, anyway? Certainly it exists when people live in geographic areas like neighborhoods and towns. It is built around common interests, such as sports, vocations, or hobbies. It surely occurs where values are a foundation for fellowship, like in churches, charities, and political groups. Community even forms in the face of shared experiences or adversity, as with medical or mental health support groups.
This last category lends the strongest evidence that community exists when people actively recognize a shared life experience. Of course I can’t speak for all LGBT persons, but I believe that there is just a single salient event—encountering the moment of revelation about our identities—that gives us any semblance of belonging in community with each other. “What we perhaps have at the core,” writes poet Judy Grahn, “is an uncanny ability to identify with what we are not, to die as one form and return as another.”
Following this deeply personal revelation, LGBT persons face the challenge of navigating life, but no two courses chart the same. We must decide, a thousand times every day, whether to hide or be real. It’s a complicated, often weary, journey of measuring others’ attitudes and anticipating their reactions. Will we speak truth, or is it easier, smarter, safer to just acquiesce to the majority?
Is it any wonder, then, that so many universal, yet conflicting emotions—pride, hope, fear, frustration, anger—are tied to the LGBT community? Is it any wonder that America hears so little of this community story through interpretation at museums, historical sites, and other interpretive places?
Is it any wonder that I was overwhelmed at seeing myself reflected for the first time in those Christopher Park statues?
It’s obvious why this resource held inherent meaning for me: Freeman Tilden’s first principle of interpretation was in effect. “The visitor’s chief interest is in whatever touches his personality, his experience and his ideals.” When I found a place telling an oft-overlooked part of my story, guess what? I was intrigued. My life is not solely defined by my sexual orientation, but it is constantly tempered by it.
In fact, my experience at Christopher Park is a model for Tilden’s exact definition of interpretation, which “aims to reveal meanings and relationships through the use of original objects, by firsthand experience, and by illustrative media, rather than simply to communicate factual information.”
The original object was the actual park, and me standing there was firsthand experience. I met “the Thing Itself,” according to Tilden. “Whether it be a wonder of Nature’s work, or the act or work of Man…To pay a personal visit to a historic shrine is to receive a concept such as no book can supply.”
Then there was illustrative media, both textual and artistic. The signage, well written and placed, forged intellectual connections by going beyond dates and data. Instead, the panels told a story, helping me understand the site’s context in history and culture. “Interpretation is the revelation of a larger truth,” wrote Tilden, “that lies behind any statement of fact.”
It was the statues, though, that forged the strongest interpretive connection and elicited my overwhelming emotional reaction. Tilden said good interpretation is about “exposing the soul” of a place, revealing “those truths that lie beyond” what physically exists before our eyes. In their comfortable, easygoing poses, the statues represented a way of life that I have long sought: to be authentic. When I stood among them, I felt a strong sense of belonging. These people would understand my angst in coming out to my parents and dealing with life every day since then. For a moment, through interpretation, I found community.
Tilden suggests that the final measure of success is when interpretation “aims not to do something to the listener, but to provoke the listener to do something to himself.” Right then, I resolved to keep living like those statues, who so quietly, yet candidly, sent such a strong message. I shy from being flashy or loud, but sincerely am myself—present, open, honest, and loving. I do wear a ring symbolizing commitment to my partner of 14 years. I do share my story when it can help set the tone for positive communication. My aim is not that others think or feel the same as me, but I do answer Tilden’s challenge, encouraging anyone in my company “to do some thinking about [things] himself…. His horizon cannot fail to be widened.”
In my career as an interpreter, I have long believed that when we do our work well, we create opportunities for visitors to move from understanding, to appreciation, to protection of cultural and natural resources. Now, because of outstanding interpretive design in Christopher Park, I am more motivated than ever to be effective. I’ve found I work harder at fostering a sense of belonging for visitors. I am more conscious about relating to their lives, helping them to have firsthand experiences, and using effective illustrative media that connects with their minds and hearts.
I was serious when I said those statues spoke to me. An encounter with community-based interpretation changed my life when I least expected it. Will it change yours?
Kelly Farrell is an NAI Certified Heritage Interpreter and Trainer based in Little Rock, Arkansas. Reach her at kelly.c.farrell@gmail.com.
Gerald P. Wykes
His hands were gnarled and bent, twisted by time, hard work, and arthritis. But the old man proceeded with the slow precision of a surgeon out of habit, memory, and deep unspoken emotions. His name was Giuseppe Lanza, an aging master craftsman. He was a small man, slightly hunched over, walking with a cane and growing frailer with each passing day. Some would have considered him minimally educated, but he was packed with the wisdom of ages. He seemed to know so much about so many things. I was in awe of the old man I saw; he had for sure earned a degree in living. For hours at a time at ages 13 and 14, I simply sat there and watched him carve, sand, and string as he deftly recreated models of ships he had worked on as a young shipwright back in Naples, Italy. I would carefully examine each of the ships he had already built that now sat on shelves on the walls until I found some part or some design feature whose purpose or function I didn’t understand. In looking back, I must have pestered him with a thousand questions, but he always stopped what he was doing to explain it in his accented English. When I asked a question twice, he would simply try a different way to answer it until I understood what he was doing. He never scolded me for misunderstanding.
What I Learned at the NAI National Workshop
By Jeff Miller
In November, I attended the annual 2009 NAI National Workshop in Hartford, Connecticut, along with nearly 700 other U.S. and international attendees.
The author (right) with workshop keynote speaker and Environmental Interpretation author Sam Ham.
There were over 110 concurrent educational sessions in 13 different educational tracks offered during the five-day workshop. The sessions covered aspects of frontline interpretation, planning and research, non-personal interpretation, and interpretive management, among other topics.
I attended a variety of sessions to improve my skills, to learn about issues affecting programs, to learn skills that help improve visitor experiences, and to help motivate me to be better. I saw rangers at sessions about zoos, interpreters at sessions about writing, and management staff at sessions for emerging technologies. I even saw Elvis (more on that later). The variety of sessions offered and who attended which session was quite diversified.
I was able to gain valuable information to enhance my skills as a tour guide and interpreter at Hearst Castle in San Simeon, California. The training sessions really do help with the knowledge, skills, and abilities that are needed to be a good frontline interpreter. I am always striving to make my interpretive product better, and the training provided at NAI Workshops assists with that goal. It also adds to the necessary tools to perform my job duties and be a better representative of California State Parks. I will be better prepared to enhance the visitor’s experience and, I hope, inspire, inform, and educate them, too.
At NAI 2009, I presented a two-hour session on creating themes for presentations, tours, signage, printed materials, exhibits, etc. It was a hands-on learning session designed to provide information and inspiration for others to take back to their locations and in future training of other staff members. It was a learning experience for me as a presenter, and I hope a valuable learning experience for all of those who attended. Presenting sessions is also a great way to become involved at conferences and workshops, and I thank the participants who attended my session.
I want to share a couple of memorable personal experiences from the week. One was at the Excellence in Interpretation awards ceremony. It provided a place for NAI and federal agencies to present and honor the winners of their respective national awards. The organizations were NAI, the U.S. Forest Service, the U.S. Army Corps of Engineers, the Bureau of Land Management, the U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service, and the National Park Service. The highest interpretive honor one can win from the National Park Service is the Freeman Tilden Award. This year the winner was Ranger Shelton Johnson. Many of you know of him and may have been fortunate enough to see his portrayal of Sgt. Elizy Boman, a Buffalo Soldier in Yosemite in the early 1900s. He was also in the recent PBS series, The National Parks: America’s Best Idea. It was an honor for me to be there when he received this national recognition and also to have a chance to chat with him. Ranger Johnson has inspired me to be the best frontline interpreter that I can be.
The second story I want to share happened one day when I and a few other participants went to the Museum of Connecticut History, located in the Supreme Court Building in downtown Hartford. While we were there, there was also a large school tour group. They had been given worksheets from their teachers and were on a scavenger hunt through the museum. We overheard them looking for a typewriter and other things. I heard a few of them saying they were looking for the most powerful item in the museum—one that you had to be 18 years old to use. There was an old mechanical voting machine in the first room, and I knew that is what the teacher wanted them to find. It was quite discouraging to hear and see as they congregated around a Colt Firearms exhibit (Colt is based in Hartford) and decided that a gun was the item they were seeking. It made me realize how important the words I say on my tours may be, and to always choose them carefully.
So eventually the week came to an end. All I can say is “Wow!” It was a fantastic workshop and great learning experience. The NAI Workshop provides the opportunity to meet and network with the best and brightest in our field. It brings us together from around the globe. We have the opportunity to share our most current ideas, our experiences, our thoughts. We learn, we tell stories, we sometimes play musical instruments. We laugh, we cry, we bond. We realize what a special group of people we are.
I have been to many conventions, conferences, and workshops over the years. I have never been to one like an NAI Workshop, where every person you meet loves their job and loves what they do. They want to share all they can with you over a few short days. I hated for the week to end, and to say my good-byes until next year’s workshop.
It was during a promotional skit for the 2010 NAI National Workshop in Las Vegas where I saw Elvis. I hope to see Elvis again in November, but more than that, I hope you will consider attending this outstanding event in Las Vegas.
Jeff Miller is a tour guide and interpreter at Hearst Castle in San Simeon, California. Contact him at HearstCastleJeff@aol.com.