Vodka Yonic features a rotating cast of women, nonbinary and gender-diverse writers from around the world sharing stories that are alternately humorous, sobering, intellectual, erotic, religious or painfully personal. You never know what you’ll find in this column, but we hope this potent mix of stories encourages conversation.
Last summer, my friends and I went on a pilgrimage to Dollywood for the first time. We spent the first day of the trip eating kettle corn and riding the Blazing Fury roller coaster, our plastic seasonal Dolly cups bashing us in the shins the whole time. When we got back to the Airbnb in Gatlinburg, exhausted and sun-weary, my friends sat down to rest while I went back to my car to grab something I’d forgotten from the back seat. I walked out distracted, looking down at my phone. When I glanced up, I realized I was within petting distance of a huge black bear.
Here’s something good to know about Gatlinburg: There are bears, just out and about. There are bears on the street, in the woods and in people’s front yards. There are special bear-proof trash cans to keep them out of garbage so they don’t keep coming back for food. Gatlinburg is known for its bears. The bear was not out of place. I was.
I have spent my entire life in Nashville. As a child, I played in well-maintained yards, concrete driveways and cul-de-sacs. I’ve moved three times, but only within the limits of Davidson County. I grew up in the suburbs, moved briefly for college, and moved back to Bellevue to begin my adult life. I don’t have much of a relationship with nature, and that was on purpose. “Why would I go outside?” I used to ask people with the natural shrewdness of a 5-year-old, “when we built the inside? We made in here so we wouldn’t have to be out there.”
And there were practical reasons to not go outside. My mother had such an aversion to dirt that coming in from playing outside was a four-step process: Take off your shoes; wash your hands; change your dirty clothes; sweep the floor where you came in. It was just another chore, so we didn’t go outside. It was easier that way.
I thought I made the choice to stay inside because I didn’t like nature. But it wasn’t until I was sprinting back to the Airbnb and throwing my body against the door to get away from the bear that I realized that wasn’t true. I didn’t just dislike nature — I was afraid of it.
Here’s the thing about growing up in the city: When you’re raised by parents who also grew up in the city, they can’t teach you about the outdoors. All they know to tell you are the ways it can hurt you. Ticks, stinging nettles, poisonous spiders, poisonous berries, tainted water — you’re lucky if you come back alive. The outside world is a danger.
As I got older, I learned about the danger I presented to the outside world. Science class taught me about the world’s natural habitat, and how the actions of humans have altered it. I started to understand that I was capable of hurting nature, even if I didn’t understand how.
Bears that spend too much time around humans are often killed by rangers out of an abundance of caution. I know now that this is about habituation — bears can become aggressive if they think they’re competing for food — but I didn’t know that when I saw that bear. All I knew was that I was as big of a danger to the bear as the bear was to me. I ran for his life as much I ran for my own.
Once I started telling my family about this, they revealed — to my surprise — that I come from very outdoorsy people. Go back two generations in my mom’s family and you’ll find a bunch of sharecroppers. My paternal grandmother talks about the life she spent outside, picking apples and drinking spring water, with a wistfulness that makes me wish I could give it back to her. I started to wonder how so little time could pass in our family, yet my attitude toward nature was so different from theirs.
I started to feel like I was missing out. It’s only as an adult that I’ve learned how much there is to like about being outside. I go out onto my apartment balcony to let the sun shine on my skin in the spring. I watch the rain from my deck chair during the summer storms. I went to East Tennessee a few years ago and got to see Ozone Falls for the first time. It’s not to be missed. I still stress about ticks, but I finally think I found the right bug spray.
And if I see a bear again, maybe I won’t run. Maybe I’ll get a picture. From inside. Through the window.
