As I reflect on this week’s readings— Penniman’s Concentric Memory and Sharkey’s Introduction to Darker Wilderness—I can’t help but see the parallels between their insights on nature and my own experiences growing up on the island of Koh Samui, Thailand. Both authors explore how marginalized communities have developed distinct relationships with the natural world, often in ways overlooked by dominant environmental narratives. Their perspectives resonate with my own, shaped by my island upbringing and my grandparents’ deep connection to the land and sea.
One of the key themes in Sharkey’s and Penniman’s essays is the marginalized history of Black people’s connection to nature. Sharkey introduces the idea that Black conceptions of nature have historically been sidelined, often reduced to narratives of exploitation and violence, especially when tied to the history of enslavement. This is crucial, as it expands the conversation beyond trauma to include resilience and reverence for the land. Similarly, Penniman speaks to the “concentric memory” that lives in the soil, arguing that the natural world holds stories of both suffering and sustenance. Including these perspectives in broader environmental conversations challenges the monolithic view of nature as something separate from marginalized peoples’ histories.This acts as a reminder that nature may be a place of trauma as well as healing, restoring, and resilience.
These reflections motivate me to think about how my identity, community, and upbringing have influenced my relationship with nature. Growing up in Koh Samui, I spent time in the world of nature on a daily basis. The island’s tropical forests, crystal-clear oceans, and diverse wildlife were more than just beautiful; they provided food, culture, traditions, and identity for my family. My grandparents, especially, fostered this connection.My grandma taught me how to gather coconuts, fruits, cook and how to swim and hunt, using the same actions passed down through generations similar to how she was raised. It wasn’t just about food or being able to learn how to do certain things though; it was mre about a relationship to the land, environment and culture that I was raised in. Much like what Penniman describes, I learned that nature wasn’t just a backdrop but a living, breathing entity that held memory. Koh Samui’s beaches weren’t just places of beauty—they were where my grandparents had grew up and lived, where stories of my family were embedded in the sand and sea.
As I grew older, I started witnessing environmental changes. The once beautiful beaches of Koh Samui had been taken over by tourists, and the island’s weak ecosystems were in danger due to development. These changes addressed the larger ideas in Sharkey’s essay, which show how exploitation—whether through forced labor or land degradation—is frequently linked to the experiences of disadvantaged communities within the environment. While I didn’t experience the historical trauma she describes, I felt a parallel in seeing how the land that nurtured my ancestors was being commodified and polluted. My background, my community, and my family history have all shaped how I define and understand nature. For me, nature is deeply personal—it holds the stories of my ancestors, much like the “concentric memory” Penniman writes about. It is an environment of both beauty and survival, where past experiences meet with the urgent needs of present issues. Growing up, I experienced environmental challenges that made me realize the importance of sustainability and preservation, not just for aesthetic reasons, but also to respect the memory of those who came before and how the enviroment originally was.
In both essays, Penniman and Sharkey emphasize the importance of including marginalized voices in conversations about nature. Doing so not only diversifies our understanding but deepens it, recognizing that nature is not a neutral space but one that carries the imprints of history, identity, and culture. My own experiences have led me to see nature as a partner in survival, not just for me personally but for my entire community. One image that encapsulates my connection to nature is a view from the cliffs overlooking Koh Samui’s beaches at sunset. It’s a place where the land meets the sea, much like how my personal history intertwines with the island’s natural beauty and struggles. This view reminds me of both the serenity and the complexity of my relationship with the environment—a place of memories, change, and resilience. By drawing from my personal history and these critical essays, I see how one’s identity and community deeply shape how we experience and define nature. For me, nature is not something separate from my life but woven into the very fabric of my existence on Koh Samui.
