Dr. Morehouse is a social geographer who researches the complex and interconnected relationships between nature and society. Specifically, his research addresses how 21st century environmental change cannot be understood independent of the social, political, and economic systems that often drive that change. Read his interview below!
What inspired you to pursue a career in geography, particularly in the areas of social and cultural geography?
Harlan: What I would say is that my pathway to geography was not a very straight one; it was fairly circuitous. In my undergraduate studies at Bennington College in southern Vermont, I majored in literature and social sciences with a minor in academic electronic music, believe it or not. That didn't yield any career opportunities—surprise, surprise. But my focus was primarily on cultural anthropology. After my undergraduate degree, I took a number of years off before pursuing my graduate studies at Central European University when it was still in Budapest, Hungary. I enrolled in a social anthropology master’s program, and it was there that I was introduced to geography as a discipline through my work with a professor. Geography, as a field, admittedly has a branding problem—people often associate it with globes, maps, countries, and capitals. However, geography is actually quite broad, offering many fascinating avenues of study. During my master’s program, I realized that I was increasingly interested in questions around the environment. I found that the way I wanted to research and discuss the environment aligned more with geography’s disciplinary conventions than with anthropology’s. Geography has a long history of engaging with environmental issues, making it a more suitable field for my interests. So, I made the switch. After completing my master's, I took a year off before starting my PhD at the University of Minnesota’s Department of Geography. There, I engaged deeply with questions about the environment while maintaining a social and cultural focus. In many respects, my journey to geography stemmed from my studies in social sciences, recognizing anthropology’s limitations in environmental discourse, and ultimately finding a new home in geography, where I had more disciplinary latitude to explore these questions.
Were there any specific courses that really made you fall in love with geography?
Harlan: Yes, I think back to a graduate course I took with one of my favorite professors of all time, Prem Kumar Rajaram, at Central European University. He taught a course on power, space, and politics, and it was in that class that I was introduced to the geographer David Harvey. That was my first encounter with Harvey’s work, and it was mind-blowing. Harvey is a towering figure in geography, particularly known for his Marxist economic approach to the discipline. His work explores how economic processes, class relations, and power dynamics shape space in very tangible ways. This idea—that space itself is shaped by economic and social forces—completely shifted my perspective. It opened up a new way of thinking about geography as an analytical framework. When I later attended the University of Minnesota, I found myself in a department with a strong tradition in Marxian political geography. While my work has since evolved, and I no longer approach things solely from that lens, the exposure to Harvey’s work was a pivotal moment in my intellectual journey.
Your research explores the relationship between nature and society. How has your perspective on this relationship evolved over time?
Harlan: My perspective is continuously evolving. Like many people raised in the West, I grew up with a dichotomous way of thinking—where society and nature are viewed as distinct entities. We often think of humans as existing in one domain, while nature exists somewhere “out there.” As I delved deeper into geography, I began to see how arbitrary and porous that boundary really is. This realization became even clearer when I encountered political ecology, which challenges the notion that nature and society are separate. If we want to understand phenomena like climate change—something traditionally categorized as a “natural” issue—we must also consider its social, political, and economic drivers. These forces shape the environment just as much as physical processes do. Over time, my understanding of the relationship between nature and society has continued to evolve, especially in response to political shifts. For instance, during the Trump administration, we saw how ideology directly impacted environmental policy—not just in terms of gutting agencies like the EPA but also in actively removing environmental discourse from public records and suppressing data. These shifts have reinforced my understanding that the relationship between society and nature is not just theoretical but has very real material consequences.
How do spiritual practices shape human and more-than-human relations in environmental studies?
Harlan: There’s a lot about the world and our relationship to it that can be empirically validated through research. But I also think it’s important to acknowledge the unknown and the mysterious aspects of our connection to the environment. As humans, our relationships with the world are not purely material. There’s a deeper, more spiritual component to them. Cultural narratives and spiritual beliefs have long been shaped by the environment. Our ability to create stories, myths, and traditions is deeply intertwined with the landscapes we inhabit. As environmental conditions change—whether through climate shifts, biodiversity loss, or other ecological transformations—our cultural and spiritual understandings of the world must also adapt. For instance, consider the decline of insect populations in parts of Western Europe, where some areas have seen a 75% drop in insect numbers over the past few decades. This loss is not just an ecological disaster but also a cultural and sensory one. The experience of stepping into a field today is fundamentally different from what it was 30 years ago—fewer buzzing insects, fewer birds, a quieter landscape. These changes don’t just affect ecosystems; they alter our lived experiences and, in some ways, our spiritual and emotional connections to the world. So, while my work is rooted in empirical research, I believe that acknowledging the spiritual dimensions of environmental relationships is crucial. It’s part of the broader narrative of how we, as human beings, make sense of our place in the world.
What are some of the biggest challenges in studying environmental change that you've faced
Harlan: I think that some of the biggest challenges have been a feeling of disappointment. You know, I've been studying this for a while, and it's not just that we're not making the right decisions—we're actually backsliding on a lot of things as a society. That’s really hard to witness, especially in the face of so much evidence and data. It’s frustrating that, despite what we know, we continue to disavow environmental issues as a society. Of course, not all of us do—hopefully, many environmental studies majors don’t disavow it that way. But the mechanisms of power don’t seem to be particularly aligned in addressing these issues with the urgency required. So, one challenge has been recognizing a clear problem but not being able to depend on established systems of power to address it effectively. Another challenge, and this is more indicative of my current research, is that a rapidly changing world demands that we pay close attention to subtle shifts over time and bear witness to acute changes, such as wildfires. However, it’s becoming increasingly difficult to pay attention because our focus is constantly fragmented, competed for, and commodified— particularly through social media. These platforms keep us locked in the present moment, distracting us with new content and short-term engagements. This presents a challenge when discussing issues like climate change, which are massively distributed across space and time and inherently intergenerational. It's difficult to get people to think about long-term commitments when their attention is fixated on the immediate moment. And this is a complicated issue. For instance, someone may not engage with climate change because they’re absorbed in social media, spending hours scrolling through content. But another person may be disengaged because they’re in a state of economic insecurity, worrying about putting food on the table next week rather than what the world will look like in 2100. I recognize that making an appeal to long-term thinking is, in some ways, a privilege. However, one of our greatest challenges as a society right now is breaking free from the “prison of the now” to think on longer timescales.
Can you share a particularly memorable or impactful moment from your teaching career?
Harlan: I love teaching—it’s a lot of fun. I'm really enjoying my political ecology course this year because it’s so different from the typical structure where I hold the knowledge and students are there to learn. In this class, especially in the first quarter, we’ve been critically analyzing our relationship with technology, and students bring so much personal experience to the discussion. Rather than just teaching fundamentals, my role has been to provide vocabulary and theoretical frameworks that allow students to better understand their own relationships with technology. It’s a very different pedagogical approach—more about shaping conversations than simply delivering information. Every class I teach reminds me of the importance of stepping back and listening. I find that students today genuinely want to make sense of their relationship with the digital environment because it's confusing, fragmented, and often anxiety-inducing. Having a space to philosophize about these issues together has been liberating. I’ve also been learning a lot because, at 46, I have my own relationship with social media, but there’s a generational difference in how younger people experience it. Teaching this course has been an exciting journey of learning across generational divides.
What lessons can we learn from past environmental disasters?
Harlan: Memory plays a crucial role here. Retaining both individual and collective memory of past environmental disasters—and successfully transmitting that memory across generations—is essential. Learning from past events helps us adapt to both anticipated and unexpected disasters. One lesson is that human ingenuity has repeatedly allowed us to navigate crises. However, our ability to rely on innovation is dependent on understanding and learning from past experiences. At the same time, we must also recognize how environmental disasters can be exploited. For example, after Hurricane Katrina, speculative developers took advantage of the devastation to clear out depopulated areas for redevelopment, benefiting specific demographics while displacing others. A similar pattern has been seen in Los Angeles, where predatory property speculators use catastrophe as a means of accumulating capital. Currently, there’s discourse about similar exploitation in Gaza, with discussions about redevelopment that disregards the humanitarian catastrophe. This darker side of catastrophe—where crises are capitalized upon—needs to be acknowledged and addressed.
How do you maintain hope?
Harlan: First and foremost, if someone feels hopeless, I completely understand. It’s an understandable reaction to current circumstances. However, hopelessness makes for a poor destination. Dwelling in it for too long essentially forecloses the possibility for a better future. Yet, there are ways that hope can sometimes be used to paper over real challenges ahead of us, which is counterproductive. When I teach, for example, I don’t want to mislead students by wrapping up difficult realities with a false sense of hope. Instead, I prefer the term “cautious optimism.” While it overlaps with hope, cautious optimism acknowledges the real challenges ahead and refuses to shy away from them. Where hope can sometimes feel detached from reality, cautious optimism can incorporate an awareness of obstacles while still recognizing our ability to overcome them. I think there is reason to be cautiously optimistic. After all, our species has repeatedly demonstrated the capacity to navigate difficult times. That is, our history isn’t simply one of competition—it’s one of mutual aid and we wouldn’t be here without this long legacy of collaboration. So, while I wouldn’t say I hold onto hope in the traditional sense, I do believe in the potential for resilience, adaptation, and collective action in the face of adversity.