In Birding to Change the World: A Memoir, Trish O’Kane, an accidental ornithologist turned activist, recounts how birds profoundly reshaped her life and outlook. After Hurricane Katrina devastated her home and plunged her into despair, encounters with various birds inspired her to pursue a PhD in environmental studies in Madison, Wisconsin. Immersing herself in birdwatching and research, O’Kane became a dedicated protector of these creatures. Her activism was ignited when her local park, a critical habitat for birds, faced development threats. Mobilizing a community of diverse nature enthusiasts, they successfully preserved the park. O’Kane’s memoir intertwines bird science with stories of community activism and personal transformation, presenting a heartfelt argument for environmental stewardship fueled by joy and collective action.
You weren’t initially a bird person. How did your relationship with birds first develop? What was your gateway bird, so to speak?
I was definitely not a birder, nor did I have a particular dislike for birds; I simply never noticed them. Like most people, I took them for granted. As a journalist focused on human rights and civil rights issues in Latin America and the Southern United States, my attention was consumed by human concerns—effectively, 24/7.
The narrative shifts as I describe in my book, following an environmental epiphany sparked by a personal tragedy. After relocating to New Orleans to teach journalism, Hurricane Katrina struck, devastating the city and particularly our neighborhood. Our house was destroyed, requiring demolition, and many of our neighbors tragically lost their lives. For someone who had never seriously considered environmental issues, this was a profound wake-up call.
The catastrophe was a stark introduction to the realities of climate change. That summer, the waters of the Gulf of Mexico were the hottest ever recorded, leading to warnings from New Orleans about the safety of the tap water, which had turned green due to algae blooms. These conditions intensified the hurricane, which, although it weakened to a Category 3 by the time it made landfall, caused massive destruction.
In the aftermath, I was in shock and deep grief, shared by the million people who lived there. I had to evacuate and was away for several months, uncertain of my job’s future and when the university would reopen. Upon my return, the silence of the city was eerie; the usual morning traffic and the sounds of daily life were absent because many had not returned.
Then, one quiet morning, a clicking sound outside drew my attention. It came from a Northern Cardinal in the yard—a striking sight against the backdrop of devastation. This vivid, singing bird amidst the rubble brightened my day and marked a turning point for me. It prompted me to start paying attention to the life still persisting in the area. Though I did not have binoculars and did not consider myself a birder at that time, the presence of those birds that had survived gave me a sense of relief and a newfound appreciation for the resilience of nature.
You mentioned how difficult Hurricane Katrina was and how something like that leaves scars. In your book, you say that birds continue to be the best medicine for you. How did they help you through that time?
Well, first of all, many people are now writing about this: birdwatching is a form of meditation, perhaps even more meditative than traditional methods because it requires complete focus on a living creature. Your vision and hearing are fully engaged, akin to concentrating on meditation beads or a candle, but with the added unpredictability of what the creature might do next. This focus can immediately slow your breathing, still your movements, and lower your heart rate, leading to a drop in cortisol levels. These physiological responses to being outdoors and in nature are well-documented in public health studies.
This was my experience when I began watching birds. Growing up in Southern California, I was always outdoors, though I never really appreciated it until I lived in New Orleans. There, I realized that being outside made me feel okay, even better. In contrast, being indoors and staring at a screen made me feel panicked and breathless—a challenging state for a journalist accustomed to grading papers and working online. Suddenly, being online felt awful, and the outdoors became my refuge.
The birds provided a focal point for my attention, which was crucial since I wasn’t naturally inclined to meditation or particularly Zen-like in demeanor. Eighteen years later, I might be more Zen, but it’s been a gradual change. I think many of us can relate to that feeling of striving to be more centered than we naturally are.
The core of your book unfolds predominantly in Wisconsin, specifically Warner Park. Could you describe Warner Park for us? It’s a very specific location, and for those unfamiliar with the area, it would be helpful to know about the wildlife and birds found there.
Certainly, Mark. Imagine a park that any city dweller can envision—it spans about 213 acres. This park beautifully illustrates how we can coexist with other species. Roughly half of its area, about 100 acres, is developed and includes a 32,000-square-foot community center, tennis courts, and a baseball stadium with seating for over 6,750 spectators, among other sports facilities.
Adjacent to these amenities, the other half of the park, where I lived nearby, remains wild and untamed, featuring wetlands and a marshy island. This natural setting reminded me of Louisiana, with its geese and towering sandhill cranes, some as tall as five to six feet.
During my Ph.D. studies, I took an ornithology class that required spending an hour a week birdwatching for my dissertation. Conveniently, the park was just across the street. Initially unaware of the diversity it held, I eventually recorded 141 bird species there, many of which were long-distance migrants traveling to and from Latin America.
Today, more than 178 species have been identified in the park. Urban parks like this serve as crucial rest stops and nesting grounds for birds. Yet, what makes Warner Park notable is its blend of vibrant human activity and rich natural habitats. This coexistence is evident when red-tailed hawks, commonly seen carrying prey or even mating atop stadium lights, interact with the urban elements of the park.
Although not all urban settings are ideal for wildlife—as illustrated by the unfortunate events involving Flocko in New York City—Warner Park exemplifies how thoughtful management and a willingness to share our spaces can enrich our mental and physical well-being. It shows that joy and a dose of nature’s medicine can be found just a walk away for those living near such green spaces.
It seems that at key moments in your narrative—not in every chapter—a rare bird appears, or a bird that, you could say, stands up to politicians. Is the American bittern one of them? Could you describe that particular instance without delving into the others?
Yes, certainly. There’s something quite profound about birdwatching. I believe when you start observing birds, they begin to observe you too. This mutual awareness might stem from what I suspect is a ‘predatory gaze’—birds, being inherently vigilant, might perceive humans as potential threats.
Initially, my observations at Warner Park seemed typical, until the experience took on a deeper significance at a critical moment. I was preparing for my first public meeting on environmental issues—quite a departure from my background in human rights. The anxiety was palpable; I was a novice in ecology, about to present to a parks commission in a city known for its environmental advocacy. I feared my limited knowledge would be glaringly obvious.
On the morning of the meeting, I went birding to calm my nerves. It was around 7:15 AM when, among the usual sightings, I spotted a bittern—a master of camouflage. This bird, with its neck stretched and stripes blending with the reeds, could easily be mistaken for part of the marsh itself. Its presence was extraordinary: not only had it never been reported in the park, but it was also a species known to be in decline.
This sighting felt like a revelation. Despite prevailing opinions that the park was degraded and not wildlife-friendly—often dismissively called a swamp or worse—here was this elusive bird, a testament to the wetland’s health and a potential turning point for the park’s future.
At the meeting, I shared my encounter, hoping it would resonate as a sign of the park’s significance. Unexpectedly, the president of the parks commission was particularly moved. He even played the bittern’s call from his phone, revealing his personal connection to this species. This serendipitous moment helped forge a relationship with the commission, which ultimately supported our efforts to protect the park.
Well, I didn’t phrase that question perfectly. Briefly, what was the actual threat to the park? What were they planning to do?
Right, the situation involved a city-wide plan for the area around Warner Park, a community that needed attention. It’s a lower-income area facing some challenges, and while we weren’t opposed to the entire 165-page plan, a specific part of it caught our attention due to a neighbor’s alert.
The initial concern was a proposal to build a sidewalk on the park side of the street, which would necessitate the removal of a line of black walnut trees. This sidewalk was planned to run through a wildflower meadow where children frequently played, near a swing set. It seemed unnecessary, and I couldn’t help but ask why at a local meeting.
That’s when I learned it was part of a larger, more comprehensive plan for the park. As I delved deeper, my concern grew—it wasn’t just about a sidewalk. The plan involved clearing wooded areas, installing a pontoon concession in a shallow two-foot wetland, and constructing a bridge to a marsh island where birds nested.
Many locals believed that not all the projects outlined in the plan would come to fruition. However, the mere approval and documentation of such plans posed a real threat. By the time we attended the first public meeting, the plan was nearly rubber-stamped for approval. We discovered it at the last minute and were desperate, a group of neighbors trying to intervene in what felt like a last-ditch effort to preserve the integrity of the park.
So, theoretically, what would that have meant for the wildlife in the park?
First of all, that Marsh Island in Warner Park—where the birds now nest—holds a special significance. We began advocating for the park back in 2009, and I recently returned there for my book launch. To my delight, there are now eagles nesting on that island, Mark. I even saw a mother eagle tending to her eggs in the nest, a sight that was unimaginable years ago when that area served as a fireworks launch pad.
Originally, there were plans to build a bridge to the island and potentially rent it out for wedding ceremonies as part of the Parks Department’s efforts to generate revenue. Such developments would have undoubtedly disrupted the nesting grounds not only for eagles, which hadn’t nested there before, but also for the sandhill cranes that return each year. Additionally, the island hosts geese, thankfully in fewer numbers now—previously, there were too many.
The impact of those planned developments would have extended beyond just the local nesters. Warner Park acts as a crucial stopover for migratory birds traveling between the southern and northern parts of the continent, similar to Central Park. These birds, including various duck species that do not nest there, rely on this habitat as a place to land, refuel, and rest during their lengthy migrations.
All these ecological benefits, this vital sanctuary for birds, could have been lost had those developments gone ahead.
Okay, now, based on the title of your book, “Birding To Change the World,” it’s clear that birds play a central role in your narrative and are a driving force behind your conservation efforts, right? But as you progress through the book, it also becomes apparent that it’s about all the people you’ve encountered along the way. You’ve built numerous relationships. Could you discuss how everything came together? It’s a broad question, I know, but it really struck me how you’ve met so many unique and distinct characters. Does that resonate with what you intended?
Initially, as a journalist, I thrive on interacting with people—striking up conversations comes naturally to me. However, when I first arrived at Warner Park, my situation was quite different. Still grappling with the aftermath of Katrina, I was in a state of grief and sought solitude, preferring the company of birds to people.
Despite my initial reluctance, I couldn’t help but notice that I wasn’t alone in seeking refuge in the park. There were others who, like me, spent countless hours there daily, not for birdwatching, but for their own reasons. Some had physical ailments—one gentleman had an oxygen tank, another neighbor used a cane and carried a stool to rest on. These individuals frequented the park not with binoculars but as a sanctuary for their physical and mental well-being.
Conversations began organically. Curiosity about what I might be observing through my binoculars led to exchanges about the wildlife in the park. These interactions evolved naturally from sharing sightings—like the fox near the dog park causing a ruckus early in the morning—to more personal connections. Our discussions about the park’s wildlife served as a bridge, bringing us together.
When we learned about the potential threats to this shared space and its wildlife, our casual conversations shifted towards activism. By then, we were more than just acquaintances; we had become friends and allies, united by our daily encounters in the park. These experiences underscored the broader, essential role of public parks—not just as refuges for individuals but as vital spaces that foster community and democracy.
It also becomes clear in your book that birds are not just birds; they serve as vehicles for other themes. You mention, and delve into detail about, how you use birding and birds to teach a variety of topics not directly related to nature. I was particularly interested in how you used this approach to teach students about socioeconomic inequality. Could you discuss that aspect? It was something that intrigued me even before I reached the chapters where you really explore it. I wondered if you would actually approach it that way, and you did, which was really interesting. Can you elaborate on that?
Absolutely. Like I mentioned earlier, my engagement with the community at Warner Park was quite unintentional, similar to how I never planned to start a children’s program. I had no children of my own, no experience with them, and no background in environmental education back in 2009 and 2010. Yet, my background as a community activist inadvertently prepared me for this new role.
After we managed to postpone the city’s plan for the park, I met with a city councilor to express appreciation for the city’s efforts, despite our opposition. It was during this conversation that she pointed out the untapped potential of the park for the hundreds of children living in nearby apartments without yards. She challenged me to leverage my environmental studies and create a program that would engage these children with their natural environment.
That led to the creation of a class at UW Madison, now replicated at the University of Vermont, where college students mentor children outdoors. One vivid memory from those early days highlights the stark disparities I encountered: It was a snowy February, much like today here in Vermont. Some children arrived for an outdoor session in sneakers and cotton socks, their feet turning blue from the cold. My students, some of whom came from more privileged backgrounds, questioned the responsibility of the parents, not understanding the financial constraints they faced.
This was a pivotal moment. I realized I couldn’t just teach birding—I needed to educate these students about the socioeconomic realities in our community. It was essential to integrate human rights, socioeconomics, and anti-racism into our curriculum. This was particularly important to prevent perpetuating harmful stereotypes and to help my students understand the privilege inherent in simply having the means to enjoy the outdoors.
This experience transformed my approach, reinforcing the importance of making outdoor activities, like birding, inclusive and accessible. The birding world itself is evolving, becoming more diverse with an increasing number of birders of color and influential books being written on the subject. It’s a transformative time, and we’re part of a growing movement towards inclusivity in enjoying and preserving our natural world.
Yes, that’s one of the interesting aspects you brought up, which I had almost forgotten. Birding does tend to be perceived as predominantly a white hobby, which is an intriguing point. It’s something I found quite fascinating as you explored it in the book.
Using that to segue into more general questions, birding can be quite daunting for beginners. Even for those interested in birds, they can be elusive, and when you’re inexperienced, it might feel overwhelming. You might end up thinking, “Okay, there’s a pigeon. What now?” Especially when you venture into parks and forests.
So, for those interested but unsure how to start, how would you recommend they begin birding?
Absolutely, where you live can definitely influence how you begin birdwatching. It’s fantastic that you’re encouraging your students to start simple, which can be incredibly effective. Starting with a bird feeder, like the window feeder you mentioned, is an excellent way for beginners to engage with birdwatching. Observing common visitors like chickadees and goldfinches can spark interest and make the hobby accessible, even from the comfort of one’s home.
Daily observations, even if just for a few minutes over coffee—as you did in New Orleans—can help develop a routine and gradually deepen interest and knowledge in local bird species.
For those seeking further resources, I highly recommend exploring Cornell’s All About Birds website. It’s an invaluable tool offering free access to a wealth of information, including detailed videos and a database where you can look up information about various birds just by typing in their names.
And for those who enjoy social activities, connecting with local birding groups or Audubon societies can be very rewarding. These organizations often organize walks and provide opportunities for learning and community building among birdwatchers of all skill levels.
Starting with the birds in your own backyard or even those that visit your window is a modest yet effective approach to entering the world of birdwatching. You’re right; sometimes, it’s just about noticing what’s already there.
So what is your favorite bird?
It’s wonderful to hear about your fascination with gray catbirds! Their behavior and migratory patterns truly are remarkable. It’s astounding to think about these small birds traveling from places like Burlington or Wisconsin all the way to Central America and then returning to the very same bush in your yard to nest each year. That level of fidelity to a nesting site is indeed impressive.
Their ability to mimic various sounds adds another layer of intrigue to observing them. It’s quite entertaining how they can produce a range of unexpected noises, contributing to their quirky nature. I completely agree that gray catbirds are often underrated; they embody such fascinating aspects of avian behavior and adaptability.
Your appreciation extends even to birds like pigeons, which shows a genuine passion for all kinds of avian life. It’s clear that your experiences with birds are deeply valued, even if, like many, you’d prefer to keep certain messier aspects—like mites associated with pigeons—at bay, especially considering you have chickens. Each bird, from the common to the less observed, adds a unique thread to the rich tapestry of birdwatching.
What would you like your readers to take away from your book? Ultimately.
It’s clear that your book aims to offer much more than just insights into birdwatching; you’re looking to inspire hope and emotional rejuvenation, especially for those feeling the lingering effects of recent global challenges like COVID-19. Drawing parallels between the resilience of birds and human capacity for recovery can indeed be powerful.
Your reference to the dramatic comebacks of bird populations, once on the brink of extinction due to fashion demands, pesticide use, and DDT, underscores a message of resilience and recovery. It’s a reminder that through concerted efforts and community action, positive changes are possible.
The joy and renewal you found through birdwatching after Katrina are what you hope to share. By encouraging readers to connect with their local environments and communities, your book seeks to promote what you call “local muscular citizenship”—active, engaged community involvement rooted in shared experiences and natural beauty. This approach not only fosters individual well-being but also strengthens communal bonds, enhancing both local ecosystems and societal health.
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