The Decision

January 21, 2026

Last night I did something I once considered impossible: I wrote to a university to withdraw my name from consideration. And because it’s relevant to the story, I’ll tell you the program- it was the University of South Florida, and the position was assistant professor of public history. That’s right, I just turned down the opportunity to teach what I do now at a campus 15 minutes away from my boys in my beloved home state of Florida.

Now before I go on, I want to express my gratitude to USF not only for the offer to interview but also for their gracious response when I told them the news. They’re gonna get a tremendous person to fill that position and I’ll be rooting for them. But now let’s unpack this thing, cause I got some ‘splaining to do.

For those of you new to this substack, I moved to Colorado about two and a half years ago to become the first tribal liaison at our forest.¹ I was hurting pretty good then, and needed a change. My dear friend and mentor Gary Weil (who I once sold cars for) told me to head west. Another friend and mentor, Andrew Frank, thought I’d find peace there.² So I did.

It’s been an experience. The pull of Florida and especially my boys is ever constant. I miss my dudes every single moment of every single day. So the idea of turning down this opportunity hits extra hard. There was a lot of worrying that I was some kind of bastard if I didn’t take any chance that I could to get back home to them.

And no, I don’t like Pueblo. At all. I sometimes say that living in this town is like living in the most beautiful state in the country, but not actually living here. It’s a struggle, and I’m not going to sugarcoat it. But Colorado Springs is nearby, and once I find a place I can afford, I’m moving. More on that in a bit.

For me, the greatest thing here has been working with the Tribes. The feeling of welcome and belonging when I’m in Ignacio, Colorado or Carnegie, Oklahoma or when I’m in a truck touring the bison program with Arapaho friends, or just sitting around at Comanche Fair is unlike anything I’ve ever felt in my life. I love being on the reservation or out in the field, or just grabbing fajitas with elders. I want so much to do good work for them.

I’m not a religious man, but I’ve come to accept a calling here. A few years ago a Comanche elder friend of mine told me that Creator put me here to take care of this place for all the tribes. How do you say no to that? So I’ve decided to place my faith in his faith.

If you know one thing about my work here, I want you to know how much I love the Tribes. I wake up every morning thinking about how I can be of service and a friend to them. I remember last year when we were all worried about our jobs, I just thought that I came here to do this work—I’m not quitting on these folks. Ever.

I’ve also got this amazing team around me here at the Forest Service. Here’s a thing I want y’all to understand—I have the BEST colleagues and leadership. They genuinely want to do good work for everyone, including my work with the Tribes. I could not be here without them. Sometimes people say negative things about government employees. My peers are absolute professionals who bust their butts. It’s impressive. And beyond that, I’ve developed these amazing relationships with colleagues in other agencies who are just as committed to Indian Country as I am. It’s inspiring.

And yes, there’s the Dancer, who has come into my life. And nope, that’s all you get on that today.

“But wasn’t it your dream to become a college professor?”

Oh man. This one is hard. It absolutely was. And aside from like two professors, I have so much respect for historians out there who are doing the work. But when I think about what I’ve done here, alongside the work I did with the Seminole Tribe of Florida (still love and miss y’all—mvto always), I think I can do more and better work here, at least within the capacity of my own abilities. Plus, I just don’t know that I have the temperament for the politics of academia. I’m just too, well, me.

But I also feel like I’m still a historian in my own role. I’m just doing history differently, and I hope that graduate students see in my work a real way to be of service to people through the field of history. And yes, eventually I’ll publish my book.

I’m aware this may come off as some sort of quit lit—it’s not. Yes, I’m closing the door on a career path that was once a dream. But I’m finally—FINALLY—embracing the path before me. Yes, I will continue to keep it real. I will kvetch about the food here. But I think I’ve become a Western now, except instead of boots you’ll find my flip flops.

What comes next? Well, the mission continues. I work out here in Indian Country doing the best I can to serve the public. The Podcast and this substack will continue to grow (we’ve got some BIG news dropping in the next couple of days). And I can keep talking to all y’all about the things that matter most to me- public lands, history, Indian Country, and where to get the best barbecue no matter where you are.

I want to close with an analogy I’ve come to embrace. I grew up on the Tennessee River in western Kentucky. As kids, we’d gather at the spot called The Point and look across to the other side. We’d contemplate swimming across, but never would, worried about the current and where we’d end up. But I think that’s the point. You allow the current to take you where it will, knowing you’ll make it across, though not exactly where you intended. But when you step foot on the bank, you’ve made it nonetheless. For two and a half years I’ve lived with one foot in Florida and another in Colorado.

I am home now.

Jason

1. As you can probably imagine, none of my writing represents the opinions or positions of the United States Forest Service, the federal government, or Smokey Bear.

2. For a guy from Kentucky, I’m surrounded by a bunch of mensches. Anyway, carrying on.