My name is J. Drew Lanham, and I’m a Black American ornithologist—a Black birdwatcher. I openly declare my multiple identities: race and ethnicity, profession and passion. My profound love for birds resides at the intersection of these aspects, making me, and the very few others who identify similarly, a rarity. Like the elusive sparrows we often seek, we are scarce amidst an overwhelmingly white community. I celebrate my identity, yet, like too many others “living while Black,” I’ve experienced the sting of being dismissed or disrespected.
Here we go again, some of you might think—the race issue. Some may ask, “Wasn’t Black Birders Week months ago?” “Wasn’t that overblown Central Park incident resolved?” But just as I cannot forget the verbal assaults against my friends, I must extend my Blackness and my love for birds beyond a single week. Race is woven into every aspect of American life, including birding, conservation, nature stewardship, and environmentalism broadly. For birders, this issue is deeply rooted, originating from the “founding father,” John James Audubon, and it persists vibrantly today.
John James Audubon is American birding. His name is uttered reverently, almost like a sacred incantation by admirers. Mention Audubon, and like Edison and the light bulb, or Zuckerberg and Facebook, most people instantly connect the name with one thing: birds. Though others preceded Audubon, and many have followed, none in ornithology are as venerated. But What Do we do when the origin story begins with a tainted “Once upon a time?” What do we do with a racist, slave-owning birding figure who has been dead for nearly 200 years? And what do we do with a man who may have even been in denial about his own identity?
You might have come to Audubon magazine to escape such discussions. However, it belongs here. The individual whose name adorns this publication, brands a national organization, and shapes our perception of birds was far more complex than most of his followers realize—or are willing to openly confront. Questions about this bird man’s own racial identity, his categorization of others, and how his tainted, inhumane legacy continues to influence us will define the future path of the movement he inspired. These questions also hold crucial truths about our capacity to aid birds, and ourselves.
Therefore, here I am, deconstructing—or perhaps more accurately, dissecting—John James Audubon. I am also venturing beyond this exhumation to delve into contemporary issues. I am concerned with how birding and bird conservation remain too comfortably within a homogenized status quo. I aim to reveal what they can and should be.
I don’t merely love birds; I am enamored with them. They are an obsession that began around the age of eight, when my aspirations for boy-powered flight crashed against the reality of gravity. Following a winding migratory route from childhood dreams of becoming a Red-tailed Hawk to meeting expectations of an engineering career, I finally took flight in my own way. Today, I am a cultural and conservation ornithologist, dedicating most of my waking (and some sleeping) hours to thinking about birds. Part of my contemplation involves others who are similarly consumed with chasing, naming, listing, saving, and connecting with birds in almost any way possible.
From my earliest days of bird envy, I grasped the almost mythical power of Audubon. I devoured every piece of information I could find about him. In every book, John James was portrayed as a heroic figure of the woods, the quintessential birdwatcher I aspired to be. While other kids on the playground pretended to be cowboys or astronauts, I envisioned myself in buckskins, equipped with a telescope and shotgun. I wanted to emulate Audubon, observing and collecting birds. I, too, would kill birds as he did and paint them. The only difference was that I happened to be Black.
From an external perspective, there was much to admire. Audubon traversed the continent in the early 19th century, cataloging its birdlife in a manner unmatched by his contemporaries (and arguably, ever since). He brought attention to the incredible diversity of birds and opened the door to North American ornithology. Audubon’s ambition was to paint every bird. He dedicated himself to this endeavor and ultimately produced Birds of America. It must have been breathtaking to behold: life-size bird paintings, meticulously observed and artistically rendered, in a series of three-foot-tall plates engraved on “double elephant folio” paper. (The price for a set was indeed staggering: approximately $30,000 in today’s dollars.) These plates were later bound into massive books, and now, people visit libraries and museums to witness the extremely rare copies, reverently watching gloved curators turn the pages. Audubon’s work became canon, and John James himself, akin to birders’ Jesus. Like water turned into wine, anything associated with the name “Audubon” seems imbued with elevated conservation significance.
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Audubon’s work became canon, and John James himself akin to birders’ Jesus.
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The lineage of North American bird observers, naturalists, and conservationists has traditionally belonged to the same exclusive club—Wilson, Bartram, Grinnell, Roosevelt, Pinchot, Thoreau, Muir, Darling, Leopold, Peterson, and so on. This pantheon reflects the white patriarchy that dominates nature study in the Western world. Rachel Carson and Rosalie Edge—two women who were pivotal in bird conservation—deviate from this pattern, but Black, brown, or Indigenous figures are rarely acknowledged as contributors to the cause of “saving things.” Despite George Washington Carver’s crucial role in protecting the soil of the South, and Majora Carter’s significance as a founder of the environmental justice movement, their contributions largely go unnoticed outside of Black History Month, and even then, barely.
Throughout my career as a conservation professional, I have been immersed in this white-centric history, narrated from a white perspective. I have witnessed firsthand how organizations that grew from this foundation are similarly predominantly white, with a homogenized viewpoint. I served on the board of several, including the National Audubon Society. I was a rarity there as well. I resigned in 2020 because the essential work of diversity and inclusion remained isolated, at the highest levels, from priorities such as climate change, habitat conservation, and community science. Audubon’s policies and practices diverged from my own, and I needed to eliminate any conflict of interest to pursue my personal agenda of connecting conservation and culture. Yes, environmentalism and conservation are undeniably worthy causes. However, without addressing human injustices, they become profoundly unbalanced, a reality that is becoming increasingly apparent, like crows returning home to tall pines at dusk.
Currently, amidst isolation, quarantine, and a nearly year-long period of protests, debates, riots, and sedition, the nation confronts its own identity crisis. The seemingly benign world of bird watchers, who view birds and birding as escapes, has not escaped unscathed. Injustice and inequity are not bound by statutes of limitations and do not vanish where people carry binoculars. Racism does not halt at the borders of migratory hotspots.
Last summer, the Sierra Club publicly denounced its first president, John Muir, as a racist unworthy of organizational admiration. Muir, a founding figure of the American wilderness movement, also described Blacks as lazy “sambos” and Native Americans as “dirty.” The National Audubon Society followed suit, acknowledging that Audubon, too, was a racist. He enslaved at least nine people. He primarily referred to them as “servants” and “hands,” but seemed unconcerned that these individuals could be bought, sold, raped, whipped, or killed at whim. Then again, this callousness was not unusual for white men of his time. Presidents were slave owners. Why would Audubon be different? Audubon’s callous ignorance was not atypical for a white man; it was the expected norm—a reflection of race and class privilege that he enjoyed.
Both Muir and Audubon were “men of their time” and are judged accordingly, but they also could have been men ahead of their time and judged differently. The narratives of icons and heroes are vital, but what happens when truth tarnishes the shine, revealing a flawed reality? As patriarchy, privilege, and the closely related sin of racism persist, how many monuments to environmentalism and conservation must be dismantled—or at least rigorously examined? And as we reconsider our historical memory, do we need to rethink our current mission?
Playing Audubon, or any other predominantly white character, as a 10-year-old, I didn’t deeply contemplate race. Identity was suspended in fantasy. Growing into adulthood as a Black American, race is ever-present, often brought to my attention through bias or prejudice from individuals and institutions. Bias permeates my life, including my passion for birds and bird-loving people. Consequently, I am compelled to think about it even when I would rather be engaged in birdwatching or contemplating the people I enjoy birding with.
A simple question from my wife, Janice, who is not a birder, brought another dimension of Audubon’s identity to light. She was visiting the New Orleans African American Museum of Art, Culture, and History and called me. “Hey, did you know that Audubon was Black?” she asked. It was one of those questions where she already knew the answer but relished the possibility that I might not. “Ummmm . . . I knew there was some question about it.” In truth, I wasn’t certain that Birding Jesus could possibly be a person of color, but my ego prompted a slight falsehood. “Well,” she continued, “apparently they know it down here because I’m standing here looking at James John Audubon” (she often reverses his name for some reason) “and he’s on the museum wall. They obviously know something y’all don’t.”
I bristled at the “y’all.” After all, I am a birdwatcher, but I am also a Black man. I wasn’t bothered by Audubon being Black-ish. “What do you mean ‘y’all’?” I inquired. “You bird people,” she retorted. “Y’all need to get a clue.”
We ended the call, but it was evident that Audubon’s identity was more of a certainty to her than to me. Like many birders, it was a peripheral detail I hadn’t paid much attention to. Audubon’s father was a French ship captain involved in the slave trade. Audubon’s mother was French or Haitian Creole. By certain definitions, a Creole is a person of mixed white and Black ancestry. Definitions of race and identity have evolved over time, both concealing and revealing truths, so we may never definitively know John James Audubon’s mother’s identity. However, my wife saw his portrait displayed in the museum because there was a belief in his Blackness strong enough to disregard biographers who asserted Audubon’s unquestionable whiteness. Blackness in America is sometimes a matter of perception, and sometimes a matter of belief. Proof can sometimes reside in what is unprovable. The disparity between white burden of proof and Black knowing epitomizes our national cognitive dissonance on race.
Perhaps I had been blinded by the brilliance of Audubon’s art and remained fixated on childhood hero narratives that omitted his parentage or his views on humanity. Perhaps my shared love for birds had made me nearsighted. But the fact that someone with no vested interest in birding could perceive him as others did brought the glancing blow home. That single piece of information was enough for my wife to definitively identify him, yet it ignited a whole line of questioning for me.
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Blackness in America is a function of perception by some, belief by others.
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Historians continue to debate Audubon’s Blackness, but for the sake of this discussion, let’s assume the birding icon wasn’t who he appeared to be. What if he was adept at “passing”—a Black man with sufficiently white features to travel through 1800s America without suspicion or fear? Examining paintings of Audubon (some of which are self-portraits—J.J. would have adored cell phone cameras), he appears as robust, courageous, and white as any wilderness explorer. With an aquiline nose and sun-kissed face, he is always gazing into the wild, ready to observe, kill, paint, and consume birds. Audubon was a master at crafting his own image and, by all accounts, sought to distance himself from any hints about his background that might tarnish his privileged white identity.
Deconstructing a revered figure is challenging. As I traveled the speaking circuit in subsequent years, discussing bird science but also attempting to connect conservation and culture, I began to introduce the idea of Audubon’s questionable heritage. “What about embracing him as a multiracial role model?” I proposed. After all, there was a Black POTUS (half-white) and a “Cablinasian” golfer (Tiger Woods’s self-coined term for Caucasian, Black, Indian, and Asian heritage) who achieved widespread acceptance and acclaim. However, there seemed to be a different standard for John James. The first time I raised this question at a meeting in Arizona, I could almost sense the discomfort. There were numerous other pressing issues related to making birding more diverse; why focus on this?
Alt Text: Portrait of J. Drew Lanham, a Black ornithologist, looking thoughtfully into the distance against a natural background, emphasizing his expertise in birding and conservation.
A couple of attendees got up and left. Perhaps their parking meters were expiring. But the atmosphere in the room shifted. I felt invigorated by it. I didn’t have a definitive answer to the question I posed. I presented it as a heuristic exploration, hoping to open some binoculared eyes to broader questions of identity and inclusion. I repeated the question at talks across the country, whenever I had an audience. I wanted to gauge levels of acceptance, or at least open-mindedness. The question isn’t solely about Audubon’s identity; it’s about our own. Who are we as a culture, as a community?
For years, I had assumed that the prevalence of hybrid cars at birding festivals, adorned with left-leaning bumper stickers, indicated a community of allies who would understand “the struggle” of Black people. I now know better and have discarded those assumptions to gain a more realistic understanding of who we are—a subset of the larger whole.
As we dismantle monuments that deserve to be taken down, hopefully to be melted and recast into monuments of genuinely heroic—not perfect, but heroic—individuals, what difference would it make if an ancestry test revealed “sub-Saharan African heritage” in John James Audubon? Would the Great Egret, proudly white on the emblem of the national organization, need to be replaced with something . . . less white? Perhaps a Common Raven or Sooty Tern? Would those birders who left the room when I made such audacious “mulatto claims” return? And does the possibility that John James Audubon may have been of mixed race excuse his racism?
Racists receive no passes based on identity confusion or historical context. None whatsoever.
I don’t believe perfection should be the standard, but I know we can strive for better. The public witnesses unarmed Black individuals being killed and assaulted daily in high definition, and the ensuing protests. Simultaneously, there are counter-protests, riots, and attempts to undermine democracy by white individuals who would prefer Black people to remain in a subordinate position. Almost all of this is rooted in a history that Audubon witnessed near its horrific peak. He chose to observe birds and be inhumane. What choices will conservation organizations make now? Will they offer contextual excuses to gloss over the truths that need to be revealed? Appreciating beauty and advocating for justice are not mutually exclusive actions. I would argue that they can powerfully reinforce each other. Perhaps this idea could be integrated into a mission statement somewhere.
Regardless of Audubon’s true identity, he haunts my world. I possess a budget reprint of Birds of America, a cherished gift from my older brother Jock. I also have a palm-sized edition in my writing shack, along with an abridged copy of The Viviparous Quadrupeds of North America, John James’s foray into mammals; several biographies; and a few replica prints from consignment and thrift stores. Audubon’s art is monumental. I examine his portraits of “southern birds”—my birds, the ones I know best from my South Carolina home: Loggerhead Shrikes, Yellow-breasted Chats, Northern Mockingbirds, Swallow-tailed Kites. The beauty of his work is undeniable. The birds seem to leap from the painted page into the present.
But there is always a story behind what is portrayed, and I am keen to understand more about what we cannot see. One of my favorite portraits is of Carolina Parakeets (Carolina Parrot, plate 26), depicting the now-extinct parrots with their dexterous feet and gazes directed beyond the two-dimensional canvas, into a world they were destined to vanish from. Perhaps it was their final gaze before Audubon contributed to their demise. Maybe, in their highly intelligent parrot minds, they sensed something we did not. I wonder how many of the Black people Audubon encountered perceived what he so diligently tried to conceal.
I delve deep into Google searches, attempting to uncover a definitive answer about his identity. I consult with knowledgeable sources who debate his identity back and forth with me. Audubon, in any form, appears to have been an arrogant, sometimes prickly birder with limited regard for anything beyond himself and the birds he pursued. I recognize some birders like that. Hell, some might even describe me that way. But beyond that, John James Audubon possessed an immense blind spot, opening his eyes wide for birds while shutting them tightly to humanity.
Maya Angelou advised, “When people show you who they are, believe them.” Audubon revealed his true nature in “The Runaway,” a story included in the five-volume companion to Birds of America. Whether Audubon was Black or not is less significant to me compared to his own account of a chance encounter in a Louisiana swamp, where Lord God Birds still reigned and flocks of Carolina Parakeets nested in ancient cypress trees.
I envision Audubon there in the firelight, likely with a bag of dead birds intended for skinning, eating, and painting. I wonder if he shared that meat with the likely hungry and weary family he met, a family that had been enslaved, separated, and sold until the father reunited them for an attempt at freedom. They are gathered around the fire. Their clothes are torn and soiled from fleeing hounds and slave catchers. The children are frightened, trembling, crying, and cold. They recount the cruelties they endured to a distracted John James. Audubon barely listens, likely preoccupied with the birds he has seen and hopes to see. He needs to prepare the empty skins and paint. But then, these Negroes are in the way. Their stories and pleas fall on ears attuned to the call of a Barred Owl. And then John James, who briefly recognizes something human, perhaps even familial, in the faces of these free Black people, informs the family that he will return them to their owner. I imagine he believed it was the proper “white” thing to do, and in Louisiana, he must maintain appearances. Imagine the horror of that moment—being Black and free, yet knowing you would soon be re-enslaved. I wonder what I would have done in that situation.
If his account is to be believed, the family was “gladly” imprisoned again. Audubon was prone to exaggeration, but even if the story is fabricated, the lie is almost more reprehensible than the truth. Whatever humanity resided in Audubon, it all drained away into the murky swamp waters that night—or into the narrative he crafted to reinforce his white supremacy.
While America is in turmoil, plagued by politics, viruses, and a persistent reckoning with its racist past and present, few have paid attention to the seemingly progressive realm of environmentalism. If the Muir revelation can be likened to a giant redwood, riddled with decay, falling dramatically in a forest for all to witness, then John James Audubon’s racism is the albatross decaying around the necks of those who revere him. It has moved beyond smelling foul and is beginning to reek.
Audubon enslaved people. He bought and sold humans like livestock. This evidence alone is sufficient to recast the hero in a different light. Organizations bearing Audubon’s name must move forward with this new understanding and decide what they want to be. Most of their members are white individuals with enough disposable income to donate to overwhelmingly white-led organizations that have no need or desire for John James to be anything other than the myth. No one willingly pays for discomfort, but if “progress” is the ultimate goal, discomfort is a likely companion.
Why muddy the ornithological waters with race? Because racism permeates everything—even our love of birds. To see it explicitly codified in black and white is sad proof of a deeply ingrained bias. South Carolina Audubon Society reports from the early 1900s blame Black people for the decline in songbirds and waterfowl. Arthur T. Wayne, a prominent South Carolina ornithologist, listed “negroes” among agents (along with raccoons and house cats) detrimental to bobwhite quail in his book Birds of South Carolina. Racism even infiltrated later ornithological texts. Sprunt and Chamberlain’s seminal work South Carolina Birdlife, published in 1949, cites the colloquial name of Double-crested Cormorants as “niggergeese”—a derogatory term for a bird deemed deceptive and useless, still used in duck blinds today. Perspective is crucial, and there is every reason to be concerned if institutions refuse to change for the sake of tradition or easily offended donors.
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The organizations bearing Audubon’s name must press forward in this new light and decide what they want to be.
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Audubon may have passed as white, but more importantly, he passed up the opportunity to be a better human being. That is the weight that should bear most heavily on all preconceived notions, and I, for one, must dismantle any monuments I have erected to him. Race and racism are immutable facts of my life. I am proudly a Black man. I am consistently penalized for this identity, even among birders. I hold these thoughts as I hold onto my Audubon books and prints. I will not burn them, but I will view the Carolina Parakeets and every other bird or animal he painted in a different, more critical light.
A few years ago, I had a close encounter with an elephant folio myself. On a quick trip to Manhattan, my friend Jason Saul hurried me to the New-York Historical Society to see a rare copy of Audubon’s masterpiece. Short on time, we arrived to find the gallery closed. I peered over the velvet ropes, straining to glimpse the ornithological Holy Grail. No luck. As Jason cursed and pleaded with staff to let us in for “just a glance,” I noticed an exhibit at the other end of the hall: “Black Citizenship in the Age of Jim Crow.” It was the antithesis of a bird exhibit, yet I was drawn in.
I wandered through a maze of misery, overwhelmed. Blackness defined and then institutionally defiled. It was an American blind spot that persisted for nearly a century. I lost sight of the inaccessible Audubon exhibit and immersed myself in the challenging and heroic history of my people. As I approached the exhibit’s end, Jason found me. He had somehow gained access to the gallery. With my mind still consumed by the story of segregation, we entered—and there it was, even larger than I had imagined. Beneath the glass, the folio’s pages were open to Baltimore Orioles—two vibrant orange-and-black males and an equally beautiful, muted brown-and-ochre female perched on a delicate nest.
Audubon’s art endures like no other. That is undeniable. But that day, the realities of Jim Crow overshadowed his talent, a genius consumed by a system of bias he embraced. I later posted a photo of myself gazing at the black birds under glass, just down the hall from an exhibit on Black people trapped under a ceiling that never allowed them to look upwards. One was a history I had become a part of, the other a history my ancestors had been a part of. I caught my train to Philadelphia, reflecting on the irony throughout the journey south.
It’s been a long journey from my childhood obsession with flight and feathers to this complex contemplation of how the lives of birds can be “saved” while we strive to save ourselves from each other. Black lives matter now. They always have. Always will. It is crucial not only to utter the words or change a bird’s colonialist name, but to transform old missions into new ones through persistent, sustainable actions that make these words manifest in policy and practice.
These days, I sit in my side-yard writing shack, writing less than I should, Zooming more than I desire, and thinking excessively. I spend hours contemplating my identity within the context of our community of bird enthusiasts, nature advocates, and Americans deeply divided into extreme factions. It is no easy task to watch birds without the echoes of societal racism interrupting the songs of Carolina Wrens. One moment, I hope for Evening Grosbeaks to magically appear at my feeders in this finch irruption year; the next, I consider the eruption of hate. I know magic will not improve things in America, but hard work and the demonstrated commitment of people and organizations who claim to care will.
I know change is possible. In the aftermath of racist encounters, I have been uplifted by an overwhelmingly positive and inclusive group of kindred spirits—good people who treat me with respect and love, people who desire a better future for both humans and birds. And, yes, there are organizations striving to improve. In this current call for awareness, they are deeply introspective and deserve affirmation and support. However, as painful as it may be, we must speak truth to power—past and present—where it remains entrenched or regressive.
I glance over my shoulder as I work on this essay, and there, on the shelf, is John James Audubon, memorialized on a book’s dust jacket. His piercing eyes seem fixed on me. His vision of “my kind” is clear. And now, I see him more clearly as well. He was a despicable racist birder of his time, and continues to be of this time. I hope such stark identification becomes less frequent. But I know many blind spots persist within a legacy that can either be ignored, leading to stagnation and decline, or learned from to move, with eyes wide open, toward a more equitable, just, and inclusive conservation future. I have a small, framed picture of George Washington Carver, the nature-loving Black man who saved the South’s soil and was rumored to share my love for birds. I desire a better perspective and believe I’ve found the perfect spot for the Tuskegee professor, between me and John James. There. Blind spot gone.
This piece originally ran in the Spring 2021 issue. To receive our print magazine, become a member by making a donation today.
J. Drew Lanham is a conservation ornithologist and endowed faculty at Clemson University, where his work focuses on the intersections among race, place, and nature. He is the author of The Home Place: Memoirs of a Colored Man’s Love Affair with Nature and Sparrow Envy: Field Guide to Birds and Lesser Beasts.
Adrian Brandon is a Brooklyn-based artist who focuses on documenting the Black experience. He uses ink, graphite, and digital illustration to capture Black love, pride, and beauty, in addition to highlighting injustices that plague the Black community.
