FROM THE PRESIDENT
Interpreting Interpretation: Making Meaning of the Work We Do
Introduction: The Meta Nature of Our Work
There’s something almost humorous and deeply profound about the fact that, as interpreters, we often have to interpret interpretation itself. When people hear the word “interpretation,” they usually think of language interpretation—translating English into Spanish, or American Sign Language into spoken words. Rarely do people immediately connect the word to what so many of us dedicate our lives to: the craft of helping people connect with meaning, place, culture, and story.
Even within my own journey, I spent years practicing interpretation without realizing that’s what it was. Like so many colleagues, I backed into this profession. And once I found the language, the training, and the community through the National Association for Interpretation (NAI), it changed everything—not because it gave me new work, but because it gave me the words and frameworks to understand the work I had already been doing.
An interpretive tour follows the waterways through the Trang An Scenic Landscape Complex in Vietnam. Photo courtesy of Sachith Ravishka Kodikara.
Discovering Interpretation Without Knowing It
For years, I worked at environmental education centers. My role eventually morphed away from the traditional school-group programming that many think of when they hear “environmental education.” Instead, I found myself guiding families, adults, and visitors who chose to come to our centers and take part in informal programs.
Every day was different. One day, I might be leading a birding walk at dawn. The next, I’d be guiding a group of visitors kayaking through the cypress swamps of the Pocomoke River. Other days meant bike rides through winding ecosystems or casual hikes that became spontaneous explorations of plants, animals, and human history.
Great interpretation is not just about reciting facts. It’s about weaving stories. It’s about making the invisible visible. When I was guiding kayak trips, I learned quickly that I couldn’t script every moment. Nature doesn’t follow a script. A bird appears unexpectedly. A ripple in the water draws attention. A visitor asks a surprising question. In those moments, I wasn’t just pointing out plants or animals. I was weaving connections: between visitors and the place, between ecological processes and human lives, between the past and the present. I was doing interpretation. I just didn’t know the name for it.
It wasn’t until I decided to pursue more training and completed the Certified Interpretive Guide (CIG) program that I realized: Oh, I’ve been an interpreter this whole time. That training changed my life because it gave me a professional home, a community, and a shared vocabulary. It also gave me a profound sense of belonging—realizing that tour guides, park rangers, museum docents, and countless others were all part of this interpretive family.
Interpretive mastery is being quick on your feet while holding onto the larger threads of connection. It’s about knowing your themes, your stories, and your audience well enough that you can flex and adapt while still leading people somewhere meaningful.
This is artistry. It’s no different than a jazz musician improvising while staying true to the melody. It’s what makes interpretation powerful.
At its core, interpretation is about connection. It’s about helping people see themselves in a larger story—whether that’s the story of a river, a cultural artifact, a mountain range, or a movement.
When I led programs, my goal was not just to transfer information. My goal was to spark relationship. When someone leaves a program and says, “I feel connected to this place now,” or “I never thought about it that way before,” I know interpretation has happened.
And that’s why interpreting interpretation is so important. When people outside our field understand what we mean, they can see themselves as part of this work, too. They may realize that their storytelling, guiding, or even casual conversations with visitors are all forms of interpretation. That recognition builds pride, community, and power.
Parker engages with a participant at a recent NAI National Conference. Photo courtesy of Parker McMullen Bushman.
Parker guides a group at the Inclusive Denver: Equity and Accessibility Summit for Action event in June 2019. Photo courtesy of Parker McMullen Bushman.
The Challenge of Explaining “Interpretation”
However, even after decades in the field, I still find myself having to explain what I do.
When I say I’m the president of the board for the National Association for Interpretation, I’m often met with blank stares. People immediately assume I mean language interpretation. Some ask if I speak multiple languages. And so even though I’m no longer in the field daily, I still almost daily give what I like to think of as my second round of interpretive front-line programs—explaining interpretation itself.
I use metaphors. I tell stories. I invite people into the “aha” moment that so many of us have had when we realize how deep and important this field is. And one of my favorite examples is the simple image of a dress hanging in a bare room.
The Dress in the Room: A Metaphor for Interpretation
Imagine you walk into a bare room. On the wall hangs a single dress. At first glance, it’s just fabric. You might notice its color, cut, or texture. You might say, “That’s cute,” or shrug and move on. But when interpretation enters the room, everything changes. Interpretation invites you to slow down and ask questions. Each question opens a doorway into deeper meaning:
Where did the cotton come from?
Perhaps the fabric was made from cotton grown in the American South in the 1800s, harvested by enslaved people under brutal conditions. The fibers carry with them a story of human suffering and resilience, tied to the history of slavery and the global cotton trade. Or perhaps the cotton came from a modern industrial farm, cultivated with heavy machinery and pesticides, connecting the dress to questions of sustainability, labor rights, and environmental justice. Maybe it was organic cotton from a cooperative farm, representing a different story—one of resistance to industrial systems and a push toward ethical production.
Who picked it, and under what conditions?
If picked by the hands of an enslaved person, the dress becomes a testament to stolen labor and lives. If picked by migrant farm workers in the 20th or 21st century, perhaps they were working long hours in the sun, underpaid and exposed to chemicals. If picked as part of a fair-trade initiative, then the story shifts again—showing how global solidarity and ethical choices can reshape lives.
Where was it woven, and on what kind of loom?
Maybe the cotton was woven in a small village on a handloom, each thread carefully guided by an artisan whose skills were passed down through generations. Or perhaps it was woven in a textile mill during the Industrial Revolution, where women and children labored for pennies a day, the whir of machines drowning out their exhaustion. In a contemporary setting, the weaving could have been automated in a massive factory, tying the dress to conversations about globalization, fast fashion, and automation.
Who was the seamstress who stitched it, and what was their life like?
Was it hand-sewn by a mother making clothes for her child during the Great Depression, resourcefully repurposing flour sacks into garments? Was it stitched by a professional seamstress working long hours in a garment district, racing to meet quotas? Was it mass-produced in a modern sweatshop in Bangladesh or Vietnam, where workers—often young women—face unsafe conditions for low wages? Or was it crafted by a contemporary designer, turning fabric into art and commanding high prices in a boutique? Each possibility layers in different stories of economy, survival, and artistry.
What cultural or historical period does the style reflect?
A hoop skirt might speak to Victorian ideals of femininity, wealth, and restriction. A flapper dress from the 1920s could embody rebellion, jazz, and the shifting roles of women. A wartime dress made from limited rations of fabric tells of resilience and sacrifice. A miniskirt might reflect 1960s liberation movements. Each style is a mirror, reflecting not just fashion but cultural values, politics, and social change.
Did the dress have pockets? If not, why not, and what does that reveal about gender and society?
The presence—or absence—of pockets is never just about convenience. Historically, women’s clothing often excluded pockets, forcing dependence on handbags and reinforcing gendered ideas about appearance and utility. The lack of pockets reveals a story about power and autonomy: who was allowed to carry tools, money, or personal items freely? Modern dresses with pockets can feel revolutionary, a small act of reclaiming independence in a long struggle for gender equity.
Who wore it, and what stories did they live while wearing it?
Maybe it was worn by a young girl on her wedding day, carrying the hopes and anxieties of a new life. Maybe it was the dress of a factory worker, practical and durable, worn through long shifts. Perhaps it belonged to an activist who wore it to marches and rallies, the fabric brushing against the ground where history was made. Or it was passed down through a family, each wearer leaving their imprint—weddings, funerals, graduations, and ordinary days alike.
Created circa 1865 in the United States, this cotton dress shows the fashion of a fitted, corseted bodice and wide, full skirts. For this dress, support for the flared skirt comes from a “hoop skirt”: an underskirt comprised of graduated metal hoops. Photo courtesy of Brooklyn Museum Costume Collection at The Metropolitan Museum of Art, Gift of the Brooklyn Museum, 2009; Gift of Mrs. A. L. Lester, 1928.
A dress sewn by Rosa Parks (1913-2005) between 1955-56. This dress is a wrap style made from a plain weave viscose fabric with a printed design of dark brown and yellow flowers and leaves. It is machine-sewn except for the hem, which is turned up 2 inches and hand stitched. There are two belt loops made of a thin yellow braid, one at each side seam, which hold the accompanying belt in place. Photo courtest of the Collection of the Smithsonian National Museum of African American History and Culture, Gift of the Black Fashion Museum founded by Lois K. Alexander-Lane.
How was it passed down through generations, and what memories does it carry?
Was it preserved carefully in a cedar chest, treasured as an heirloom? Was it altered and repurposed, keeping the fabric alive even as the design changed? Was it eventually donated to a museum, becoming an artifact through which strangers now connect to the lives of others? Or was it forgotten in an attic until someone stumbled across it, breathing new meaning into its existence?
With that context, the dress is no longer just fabric. It becomes a tapestry of history, artistry, labor, resistance, memory, and connection. That is what interpretation does. It takes the surface and reveals the depth. It transforms an object—or an ecosystem, or a historic site, or a cultural practice—into a doorway for meaning.
The Meta Work: Interpreting Interpretation
As interpreters, we are not only interpreting the world but also interpreting our work. To help others see the importance of what we do. To bring more people into this craft. We explain to funders why interpretation matters. We show organizations how interpretation strengthens education, tourism, conservation, and community building. We explain to our families why our jobs are not just “tour guiding.” And in doing so, we’re living our own message: we’re making connections, telling stories, and revealing depth.
When you interpret interpretation for someone—whether it’s through a metaphor, a story, or simply naming their work as interpretation—you give them a gift: the gift of belonging. When I interpret interpretation, I feel like I’m giving people an invitation. An invitation to recognize themselves as interpreters. To join a community. To see that the work of making meaning is one of the most powerful tools for change we have.
I hope that more and more people will recognize themselves in this field, see their work as part of this shared practice, and join us in deepening connections, telling stories, and helping the world make meaning.
Because in a time when division, distraction, and disconnection seem to rule the day, interpretation offers something radical: the chance to slow down, look deeper, and connect across time, place, and community.
And that, to me, is the most powerful interpretation of all.
