Writing Heritage in a Land of Immigrants

I am writing a lot about heritage in urban parks these days. Because the parks I am working with are on or near the Great Lakes, I have been learning a lot more about this incredible system of freshwater...the largest in the world. The Great Lakes are an amazing inheritance for those who live near them, but they have not always been treated (or recognized) as such. I wrote this piece a while back and to be honest, I felt a bit weird about it after. I questioned my stance advocating for inheritance of place as one of the millions of Americans whose ancient ancestors do not lie in this soil. I am an individual of full European descent. Who am I to claim that all living in Western New York, European and otherwise, are the inheritors of this land? How do I write about heritage in a land of immigrants?

In some of my projects, I am trying to get people to see they have inherited something  amazing in their natural surroundings. Whether its a lake or a greenspace supporting native species, I want them to view it as heritage. The word heritage signifies these places are gifts from the past to be protected and passed on, much like other inheritances. One does not typically destroy valuable family heirlooms: rare china, one-of-a-kind jewelry, handwritten diaries, or family cabins filled with memories. We often treat these as sacred, knowing their worth. But we are not always as careful with natural heritage, places in nature ‘passed down’ in the sense that we are the ones making decisions about what happens to them next. We have inherited this power for the places that we live our lives next to or on top of. 

This perspective has a goal. I want to highlight a place as heritage in order to create a connection between the land and people living there today. I want that connection to foster stewardship and respect for the land. We can spend millions on parks, put into place habitats that will bring back native species and make room for green in a urban environment…but if people treat them poorly, the plants will die, the animals will not thrive, and the community will not reap the benefits of access to nature at the heart of these park projects. We need to motivate people and one way to motivate is to connect them to land on a deeper level. We can do this by shining a light on the fact that those who live near a Great Lake or other place of nature inherited something unparalleled, something worth protecting. But is calling all who live here inheritors of the land brushing under the rug a deeply troubled history that left the descendants of immigrants largely in charge of what comes next?

Last year I was fortunate enough to pick up Robin Wall Kimmerer’s Braiding Sweetgrass. One section in particular spoke to me regarding this concern. She tells the story of Plantago major or Plantains. These are immigrant plants in North America that clearly came with the arrival of outsiders. In fact, they were often referred to as “White Man’s Footsteps" by those indigenous to the land. This plant was a foreigner, but became a very useful species. It provided food in the springtime and medicinal, first-aid services throughout the year. Its seeds aid digestion, its leaves stop bleeding and heal wounds. A foreigner, yes. But, as Kimmerer states, after 500 years of living as a good neighbor, people forgot that.

Then she tells the story of poor role models for immigrant plants. There is Garlic mustard which poisons the soil and Tamarisk, which drinks up all the water. Then there is the dreaded Kudzo, the species that when introduced to a new place spreads without limits, taking over without regard to others. These strategies of being in a new place lie in sharp contrast to the peaceful coexistence of plantains and native plants. And while the plantain will never be indigenous, its peaceful coexistence can be seen as a path to becoming naturalized.

Kimmerer ends the chapter explaining that to become naturalized to a place means to live as if this land matters. To acknowledge that this land is vital to our survival. To do this might allow those who connect with an immigrant identity to become not indigenous to their land…but naturalized. 

And with this I return to the idea that a heritage perspective can motivate people to take care of what survived from the past, but may not survive into the future without our help. Many I am trying to reach are not the first peoples, but they are the peoples with power now to decide what happens to places of natural and cultural heritage. We can act like Kudzo, or we can be inspired by the plantain. We should acknowledge the troubled legacy of colonization at the root of why cities run by immigrants have the right to define or destroy major gifts of nature, like a freshwater lake. But a heritage perspective can still inspire people to care. Many of our ancestors do lie in these grounds, as well as the soil of places far away. We do have the ability to rethink the strategies of those ancestors. We have a chance to revitalize the places they used and left altered in ways they may or may not have intended. We ourselves may be the ancestors lying in the grounds that future generations could honor, especially if we choose the path of the plantain.

Many of us living in the US today cannot become indigenous. We cannot change how the past played out. But we can choose how we treat the lands we live on today. We cannot become indigenous, but we can become naturalized. To protect natural and cultural places of heritage allows us to deepen our roots, feel a truer connection to this land, and celebrate our heritage as it is. And looking forward, protecting this country's heritage will allow us to provide benefits to our future descendants, much like the plantain will continue to provide medicine and food to those living in the lands it invaded.