in hot water, and I don’t intend to defend him. He was an irrepressibly virile man, the sort one might describe as “macho,” living in an era when such a personality could be richly celebrated and rewarded, particularly by the white supporters of an imperialistic American worldview.
If one
were
to mount a defense on behalf of his principles, one might argue that his good deeds and acts of valor could be thought to far outstrip his rather archaic, occasional sexism and bellicose approach to foreign relations. The degree to which his misdeeds might overshadow his innocence is a complicated topic, to be sure, but in no arena so much as his love of killing wild animals.
If one examines the young Theodore’s fascination with a seal skull at age seven, then observes his penchant for not only claiming wildlife prizes of every stripe for his trophy collection but assiduously cataloguing them and describing their behaviors and habitats with a scientist’s eye for detail, only then perhaps can one fathom the lust that besotted the man when presented with the teeming wilderness of the American West.
Roosevelt was absolutely smitten with the romance of traveling into the unbroken frontier, tracking and stalking his prey, and then most of the time successfully shooting that prey for food or display. He killed a great many creatures, a hobby for which he received a lot of criticism, even during his lifetime. As I have stated, I stand in support of hunting and fishing as incredibly satisfying methods by which to put dinner on one’s table. If you are a person who disagrees with that stance, I am okay with that; I just won’t take you fishing. I feel that these, like all forms of harvest, should be performed responsibly with respect for the ecosystem and future generations, but that doesn’t mean you can’t have a beer in the boat.
Now, killing critters for a reason that doesn’t involve a practical use—that is not my bag. Wasting a large elk because its head will supposedly look good over the fireplace does not appeal to me. But when such a sticky topic comes up, I try to remember that my own position has a lot to do with my time and place. I was brought up catching fish, not shooting bighorn sheep. If I had grown up in Colorado or Wyoming, or really just in a different family in Illinois, then I might well be an avid hunter. This perspective keeps me from feeling I need to judge the hunters, just because it’s not what we did at myhouse. At the same time, I also try not to judge the folks who gripe about the hunters, because that’s also not what flies in my house.
A funny thing about Roosevelt is that when he wasn’t out killing a large pile of black-tailed deer, he was fighting fervently to preserve our nation’s forests and wildlife. The thing I try to remember about a figure like him is that, for all his epic accomplishments and feats of bravery, he was still a human being. This means he was as fallible as any of us. For example, how many of us (rightly) rail against the evils of corporate fast-food fare, only to catch ourselves in the devil’s drive-through some late and ravenous night? That happens to me about once or twice a year, and I simply shrug and try to wolf down the briefly delicious, offending pap before it cools off and turns to inedible rubbish. This doesn’t make me a supporter of fast food as a lifestyle; it merely exposes me momentarily as a human being who contains just the type of lager, or “weakness,” upon which fast-food companies prey. We all have such weaknesses by definition, and understanding this to be true is an important step toward curtailing a lot of the whining we do about things like shooting a deer for venison or using a pair of leather work gloves.
To my way of thinking, Roosevelt knew, or at least he intuited, that the type of unrestricted hunting he so enjoyed had a very definite expiration date. On one hand, he made incredible strides toward the preservation of nature in
If one
were
to mount a defense on behalf of his principles, one might argue that his good deeds and acts of valor could be thought to far outstrip his rather archaic, occasional sexism and bellicose approach to foreign relations. The degree to which his misdeeds might overshadow his innocence is a complicated topic, to be sure, but in no arena so much as his love of killing wild animals.
If one examines the young Theodore’s fascination with a seal skull at age seven, then observes his penchant for not only claiming wildlife prizes of every stripe for his trophy collection but assiduously cataloguing them and describing their behaviors and habitats with a scientist’s eye for detail, only then perhaps can one fathom the lust that besotted the man when presented with the teeming wilderness of the American West.
Roosevelt was absolutely smitten with the romance of traveling into the unbroken frontier, tracking and stalking his prey, and then most of the time successfully shooting that prey for food or display. He killed a great many creatures, a hobby for which he received a lot of criticism, even during his lifetime. As I have stated, I stand in support of hunting and fishing as incredibly satisfying methods by which to put dinner on one’s table. If you are a person who disagrees with that stance, I am okay with that; I just won’t take you fishing. I feel that these, like all forms of harvest, should be performed responsibly with respect for the ecosystem and future generations, but that doesn’t mean you can’t have a beer in the boat.
Now, killing critters for a reason that doesn’t involve a practical use—that is not my bag. Wasting a large elk because its head will supposedly look good over the fireplace does not appeal to me. But when such a sticky topic comes up, I try to remember that my own position has a lot to do with my time and place. I was brought up catching fish, not shooting bighorn sheep. If I had grown up in Colorado or Wyoming, or really just in a different family in Illinois, then I might well be an avid hunter. This perspective keeps me from feeling I need to judge the hunters, just because it’s not what we did at myhouse. At the same time, I also try not to judge the folks who gripe about the hunters, because that’s also not what flies in my house.
A funny thing about Roosevelt is that when he wasn’t out killing a large pile of black-tailed deer, he was fighting fervently to preserve our nation’s forests and wildlife. The thing I try to remember about a figure like him is that, for all his epic accomplishments and feats of bravery, he was still a human being. This means he was as fallible as any of us. For example, how many of us (rightly) rail against the evils of corporate fast-food fare, only to catch ourselves in the devil’s drive-through some late and ravenous night? That happens to me about once or twice a year, and I simply shrug and try to wolf down the briefly delicious, offending pap before it cools off and turns to inedible rubbish. This doesn’t make me a supporter of fast food as a lifestyle; it merely exposes me momentarily as a human being who contains just the type of lager, or “weakness,” upon which fast-food companies prey. We all have such weaknesses by definition, and understanding this to be true is an important step toward curtailing a lot of the whining we do about things like shooting a deer for venison or using a pair of leather work gloves.
To my way of thinking, Roosevelt knew, or at least he intuited, that the type of unrestricted hunting he so enjoyed had a very definite expiration date. On one hand, he made incredible strides toward the preservation of nature in
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