Polar Studies & Me
Growing up, my friends and family, collectively and repeatedly came to know me as unusual, especially given my interests and endeavors, many of which continued into adulthood. When other children my age played video games and watched TV, for example, I made cardboard models and played old films in the background. As a second-generation Beatles Fan, again not typical for most “Millennials” (though I hate the term), I vividly recall making my very own “Magical Mystery Tour” bus. This was a nearly yard-long, cardboard creation made of various scraps which I found around my aunt and uncle’s house where I spent many of my summers. With clear packing tape for nice see-through windows, a long bit of shag carpet for an aisle runner, and raised rhinestone buttons for headlights, all with a rainbow ‘paint job,’ compliments of various Sharpie markers, the vehicle was truly a sight to behold. Prior to this, in elementary school, my ‘portfolio’ included a large wooden airplane powered by rubber bands and inspired by hearing about Amelia Earhart, and countless pen and pencil drawings of everything from World War II flags to Disney Channel logos. Once again, such things were “unusual,” some may even say strange, but all doubtless signs of my love of learning as much as my ADHD.
Fast-forward to the spring of 2005. I completed my undergraduate studies, not as academically strong as I would have liked, but certainly I felt, then as now, well-rounded, having focused on history, but also double “minoring” in British Literature and French (not to mention founding the college’s fencing club.) In 2007, I finished my first master’s degree focused on art history, and thus dove headlong into the world of “interdisciplinary studies.” This was done before interdisciplinary studies were far from widely or warmly promoted. I recall, for instance, telling many people when in school, I wanted to be a history professor, and subsequently having them tell me with a snarky tone, I would have to have “a BA in history, MA in history, and PhD in history.” Therefore, my jumping from history to art history, and later religion, and even global health, again was unusual, but not in a way, as I soon found, which was helpful in obtaining a job or else admired in academia, at least not then, as compared to the 2020s. ‘What does this have to do with polar studies?’ I firmly believe it stands to reason, I am intrigued by the unusual, but not for the sake of such, but rather because it seems genuinely familiar and interesting to me. To phrase this in a more studious way, as my English-scholar wife said, “you are very esoteric.” (This sounds better than strange, I must admit.) As she and I have also found, we are intrigued by discovering the holistic view of someone as well as relating to them to learn at a deeper level. For example, it is not enough for me simply to read a history book, I wish to see images of the people and places related to that history, perhaps hunt down their journals in some archive, and even go to meet their descendants. Similarly, I want to know a person’s academic background, but also their personal faith journey, and what led them to do this noteworthy thing. All this in mind, the distant mystique of the polar regions together with the people who felt compelled to explore them despite “all odds,” quite naturally captured my attention. My thought process and m.o. thus stated, around 2009, after reading several articles online and exhausting what books I had on hand, I set out, fittingly, one very cold Saturday in late winter, for Winchester, Virginia, a city some three hours north of my hometown. In doing so, I thus embarked on what was my first deeper than average dive into polar studies. Though Winchester would certainly not rank highly, if at all, among spots of polar pilgrimage, I was excited to learn of its connection as well as its housing of not only history, but art related to a name synonymous with exploration at both poles, namely Rear Admiral Richard Evelyn Byrd. Byrd, who was born in Winchester in 1888, went on his own unusual journey before ever engaging in anything having to do with the poles, the likes of which I could certainly appreciate. In the modern age when the media would suggest Harvard students abound and Rhodes Scholars are the norm, Byrd would have been seen as a late bloomer at best. He began his collegiate studies at the Virginia Military Institute, before transferring two years later to the University of Virginia where eventually, due to high tuition costs, he had to leave to end up at the US Naval Academy. A little less than four years after graduating, Byrd had little active-duty experience under his belt when he was forced to be “medically retired” due to an ankle injury he had sustained aboard ship. His career seemed to be over before it had begun. |
Thanks, however, to the outbreak of the First World War, buying his time in training roles, and eventually congressional approval to promote, Byrd slowly, but surely rose to be a noted aviator and polar explorer. In doing so, he arguably became America’s version of Britain’s Sir Ernest Shackleton in many ways. It was this man who’s homeplace was in my proverbial backyard. It was his records at the Winchester Library which I went to pour over, before venturing to see his parka-clad statue designed by Superman illustrator and sculptor Jay Morton, which adorns a brick paved section of the town square. Indeed, to stumble upon this geographically close connection to a polar legend was enough to further fuel my interest.
In 2011, I made my first visit to New Zealand. Planning before I left, I made not a site seeing checklist, as much as a listing of some must-see researching spots along the way. One included a piece of public art in the capital city of Wellington, which truly brought me “full circle.” Hidden atop a foggy hill alongside a parking lot, was a bust of Admiral Byrd, the likes of which was shrouded by an unusual obelisk of sorts, covered in glazed, dark blue tiles which evoked the icy clime Byrd, and his crew would have been headed for in Antarctica, when they left New Zealand. To see how this one man from my home state had come to be known the world over, and whose polar studies had produced visual icons on opposite sides of the globe, truly fascinated me. Nearly five years later, my wife and I came to live for 2 years in Auckland, New Zealand. What Cape Kennedy, Florida or Houston, Texas is to space exploration New Zealand was, and still is in many ways, to polar exploration. Serving as a final stopping off point for supplies in the Age of Heroic Exploration and a hub of training and research today, New Zealand is home to images and icons which drove me deeper and deeper into polar studies. In 2016, just before we arrived, I was made a postgraduate Fellow of the Royal Geographical Society (FRGS), and the following year was proud to be counted among those on the Humanities & Social Science Standing Committee of The SCAR (or Scientific Committee on Antarctic Research.) Related highlights to this time include my having tea with Polar Medal recipient and Antarctic geologist, Dr. Maragret Bradshaw, as well as being invited to serve as the keynote speaker for the New Zealand Antarctic Society’s Midwinter Dinner. Perhaps further fitting for my interest in the ice, was the disappointment related to such I experienced. Despite being “close,” I was not accepted in the National Science Foundations “Artists and Writers Program”, and likewise just missed out on opportunities to travel to both the Antarctic and Arctic while serving as an officer in the US Air Force. Though not of course life-threatening, these experiences made me empathize with figures like Captain Robert Falcon Scott who, “came close,” but failed to meet their goal. Disappointment, I found, was indeed part of the game. Looking back, I could be disappointed thinking how my research and different trips were simply self-funded, cut short, or else yet to be completed, as I would like. I was reminded of this too when at the Scott Polar Research Institute in Cambridge this past summer. Surrounded by the historic souvenirs of others who “made it”, deep down I couldn’t help but be a touch discouraged, knowing I had not. On the other hand, along with disappointment, there is determination and discovery which surround and have arguably propelled polar studies down through the centuries. Learning of modern explorers like Sarah Airriess, a Disney animator turned author of the graphic novel The Worst Journey Ever, I was inspired at seeing her experience which began as one article noted, simply on her gaining a “decade of research under her belt.” Likewise, recalling the life and times of historic explorers like Dr. Edward Wilson (one of my true personal heroes) his optimism to see life and the divine even in the most deadly and austere of places is more than inspiring. (As Wilson, a scientist by trade wrote, “Love everything into which God has put life: and God made nothing dead. There is only less life in a stone than in a bud, and both have a life of their own, and both took life from God.” (Words I would be hard pressed to better even as a chaplain.) Now working as a fellow of the Taubman Museum of Art and writing on polar related pieces in the Museum’s collection, I have yet another perspective on polar studies. In conclusion, knowing there always lies at least one more thing to be discovered, I eagerly welcome the future and the opportunities to bring that which is on the polar caps into the public squares, and in doing so, hopefully inspire yet another generation. |