I spoke with Bill Devall only once. Our discussion took place via telephone. The call lasted approximately five minutes.
Before our phone conversation, although we had never met, Bill Devall had played a seminal role in changing my life. In preparation for graduate school, I read Deep Ecology: Living as if Nature Mattered. The book, written by the Humboldt State University sociology professor and Sierra College philosophy professor George Sessions, was intended to elucidate the Deep Ecology philosophy espoused by the great Norwegian thinker Arne Naess. When I read the book circa 2004 it was a revelation. For me, the ideas contained within were novel, groundbreaking, and previously unknown. It changed my outlook on the natural world and on humanity. Looking back now, I view the book from a different perspective and do not assign it the prodigious significance I once did, but that is a story for another time.
I decided to attend a graduate program concentrated on environmental issues at Humboldt State in part because of Devall and the books he had penned. Upon my acceptance to the graduate program, I learned that Devall had recently retired from the university and was now an emeritus professor. While slightly disappointed, I also learned he still resided in the area. No worries, I figured, I would seek him out and absorb his wisdom from outside the walls of a classroom.
There was so much I did not know. I was unaware of Devall’s disposition and temperament, his personal proclivities, and the nature of his relationship with Humboldt State and the professors he had worked alongside. I did not (and still do not) run in the inner circles of the American environmental literati, the biocentric intelligentsia, the eco-warrior vanguard, the green personality cults, and the associated factions therein. I was on the outside naively peering in on a world I did not even know existed.
Upon my arrival at Humboldt State, I attended a mixer for new graduate students. Professors and students from past cohorts were present to welcome the incoming class. While speaking to a circle of professors and former students I mentioned Devall and his books. The reaction I experienced seemed to indicate a horn was suddenly sprouting from the center of my forehead—awkwardness, foot shuffling, askance glances about the circle. Yes, I was informed, Devall still lived in the area. Yes, one of the professors could provide me with his phone number.
They say you should never meet your heroes lest your expectations go unfulfilled. This is sound advice. I did meet and interview jazz pianist Dave Brubeck once. He was a total gentleman and as friendly as one could hope. Brubeck seems to be the exception to the rule.
After a week or two of my first semester in graduate school I sat at my desk one evening and decided to call Bill Devall. I planned to inform him of my admiration for his writing and thinking, my enrollment at Humboldt State, and my desire to learn from him further. I dialed the number and a couple of rings later a man’s voice emerged from the other end of the line. I launched into my pre-planned monologue: offering forth my story, providing requisite context, expressing my affection.
“Who put you up to this?” Devall abruptly asked when I had finished.
“What—what do you mean?”
“Who put you up to this? Was it Betsy Watson? Is this some kind of joke? Why are you hassling me? Why are you calling me?”
I was given this phone number by Professor John Meyer. I do not know who Betsy Watson is. No, this is not a joke. I was calling to talk about Deep Ecology.
Devall was suspicious. He presumed I was some sort of provocateur with dubious intentions. I was another pawn in a game to bring him down, to humiliate him, to harass him. I was standing alone on a floating patch of ice—I had no idea what he was talking about. I tried to recover the call.
“I really enjoyed your Deep Ecology books. What have you been up to recently? What have you been working on?”
“Are you implying that I am not doing anything?” Devall demanded. “You think I haven’t been working for the past few years, that I have just been sitting around doing nothing?”
“No, no. I was just asking what you had been working on recently. Just wondering if you were writing another book.”
“Well, I haven’t had another book come out because I have been working on editing a series of books reviewing all of Arne Naess’s writings. That’s kept me pretty busy, so no, I have not had time to write a new book. This is important work. This is what I have been working on recently, if you really want to know.”
The exchange continued for another minute or two. I cannot recall exactly what further was said, but it was of no real consequence. Devall was not happy I had called him. He was not interested in talking with me. He certainly did not offer to meet me for coffee and chat about Deep Ecology or biocentric equality or anthropocentrism or Arne Naess or which pizzeria in Arcata served the tastiest pie.
I never again spoke with Devall; never saw him in person. Through later conversations with others in the know I learned that he could be a bit cantankerous, a bit testy. There had been some unpleasantness between him and some colleagues at the university. He was a complicated person.
Nevertheless, following my unceremonious phone conversation, I still held Devall’s writing in high esteem, still cited him freely in my master’s thesis, and still acknowledged the role he had played in influencing my personal philosophical transformation. In time, as my studies expanded and as I matured as a scholar and human, my understanding evolved regarding the various personalities involved in the Deep Ecology and environmental movements. As is the case within all aspects of life ranging from academia to politics to the arts, that which appears on the surface often conflicts with that which dwells at greater depths.
Never mind my phone call or the office politics of Humboldt State University or the quirks of the environmental movement—Bill Devall will always be a part of Cascadia and his legacy will continue to be embodied, knowingly or not, by many folks who call this bioregion home.