Is it Enough?

By Deb Liggett

“The Everglades is a test. If we pass it, we get to keep the planet.”
-Marjorie Stoneman Douglas

“We can’t change the world but we can change our little corner of it.” This is what I told my staff. The “little corner” was whatever national park I happened to be assigned to at the time. It was a catchy phrase, something to remind them about the importance of our work. Protecting a neighborhood could change the world. Protecting a national park could save an entire ecosystem—something else I told my staff. We were in the “parks are forever business.”

In the late 1980s, Everglades National Park took the unprecedented step of suing the State of Florida. The state was allowing polluted agricultural run-off from sugar cane fields and dairy operations to flow into the park. The Everglades was not a dumping ground. To halt the egregious practice, the Department of Justice, Environmental Protection Agency (EPA), Department of Interior and the State of Florida reached a landmark agreement in 1991. EPA Director Bill O’Reilly came to Everglades to visit, one of many Washington heavy-weights who came to visit in those days. My superintendent acted as host, and as the headquarters district naturalist I led the dog and pony show. We strolled along the raised boardwalk on the world-famous Anhinga Trail. We gandered at alligators, fish and wading birds. My boss discussed policy and I was the fluff of the performance, answering the easy softball questions about water flow and critters.

The March day was gorgeous, and everything was going along nicely. Mr. Reilly quizzed me on my other park assignments, perking up at the mention of my seasonal time at Grand Canyon National Park. He told me the EPA had just proposed a precedent-setting seventy-percent reduction in sulfur dioxide emissions at the coal-fired Four Corners Power Plant, a first-time use of the Clean Air Act to protect views and air quality within national parks. No small feat. With some pride he queried, “What do you think about the new plan?” Over Director Reilly’s shoulder I could see my superintendent blanch. The question was above my pay grade and significantly beyond my remit as an Everglades naturalist. Politically savvy, my superintendent had only recently arrived at Everglades. He was getting his feet solidly on the ground, yes, but knowing when to tip-toe. He didn’t know me. Or, he knew me only by reputation. He and I had not staged this sometimes delicate piece of performance art before. We had not discussed any ground rules. To my eye he looked visibly unsure whether he should intervene — to rescue me or to stop what might come out of my mouth.

Unaware of the drama, Director Reilly waited, boyishly eager, for my answer. A big bull alligator sunned himself on the bank. Not far away, a purple gallinule picked its way over water lily pads gleaning bugs. The career implications of my answer did flit through my brain (I did, of course, have thoughts) but it didn’t occur to me then that I could have laughed and said, “Oh, no, that’s why they pay you the big bucks.” And, so I gently waded in and simply asked, “Is it enough?” Director Reilly shot me a direct look and gave a slight nod. My superintendent cleared his throat in relief and steered the conversation to more certain ground. And that was that. I had preserved my integrity and managed to not flush my career down the toilet.

Six months later I received a letter and a photograph from Director Reilly thanking me for his time in the Everglades. Enclosed with the letter was a keynote address he had given on the 75th anniversary of the National Park Service. In the speech to a group of park superintendents he told about the proposed rule at the power plant and, using my name, he related the story of asking what I thought — and how I “ever so diplomatically” asked if it was enough. “It wasn’t,” he answered, “and we ultimately got a ninety percent reduction, celebrated a couple of weeks ago with the President at Grand Canyon. As a result, visitors will see three times farther on many winter days, and they will see more stars at night.” Heady stuff. By sharing this story with me Director Reilly had allowed a GS-9 ranger-in-the-trenches to see that she could influence public policy. So that people could see more stars. Does it get any better?

Five years in the future, at Estes Park, just outside of Rocky Mountain National Park, I will sit in the audience as a superintendent, and listen to David Skaggs, Congressman from Colorado exhort, “national parks need to be treated as an endowment for the American people. And the job of the National Park Service is to inspire Americans beyond profit.” He was preaching to the choir. He spoke of “how unfortunate it is that as a nation we only measure ourselves on economic indicators.” He went on, “What if every day on the nightly news we reported on the Teddy Roosevelt Environmental Indicator (TREI)? Or measured the Martin Luther King Diversity Index (MLKDI)? Or, what if we measured and reported on the Walt Whitman Literacy Index (WWLI)?“ What if?

I wish there were other instances in my career where the nexus between speaking up and a change in public policy was so clearly delineated. But the world of public policy is an art of subtle brush strokes, small alterations made over time, often invisible. I could have remained oblivious of my personal contribution had not Director Reilly taken the time to write me a letter. We would all like to know that our speech and actions have reverberations beyond ourselves, maybe even for generations. Often, we never know if our nudging, our questioning, the small everyday ripples we create help protect our little corner of the world. When I wonder whether I should speak, hesitating as we all do, I ask myself whether Americans in the future might see more stars?