Late afternoons I sit outside on our back porch. During these times my mind moseys among subjects of its choosing, as I sit on a leafy green chair and pensively gaze at our sloped backyard. These moments are the most pleasurable of my day: I disengage, and digest my life, out of which I become ready to face the evening that follows.
I used to carry out this ritual in the mornings, but then I met the Poobah-in-Chief. It was a cloudless day, the sun nearing its climax in the sky. The heat made me sleepy, and as I closed my eyes, a wren landed on the rail.
“Ahem. Excuse me! Would you please return from whence you came?” said the bird.
I looked up. Then I looked to the left and right. The raspy voice didn’t sound familiar.
“Here. Yes, here. I am afraid there is a misunderstanding. These are our trees, our grass. This is our backyard.” The bird’s mien was of calm forcefulness.
“Whose?”
“Ours, the birds. You sit there every morning, but you trespass where you do not belong.”
The wren jumps down from the rail and waddles towards me. He (Is it a he? I am not a bird expert so that I may distinguish) stops a few inches short of my feet. He inspects me, looking for my vulnerable point, should a struggle between us ensue. This is his way of warning me: I am willing to use force, he says, but I do not wish it to come to that.
At this, I am perturbed. I rise from my chair, enter the house. I go into the kitchen, where I look out the window at the porch, the backyard. I do not see the wren.
This is unsettling, I think.
A bird has questioned my right to sit on my own porch. And I am talking to the bird. Is this some manifestation of my postmodern self? Is this what it has all come to?Suddenly, the wren flies to the window, its claws clutching to the ledge, its wings flapping madly, as it peers in at me. He looks as if I didn’t get his point the first time. Even indoors, it seems, I am not safe from the bird.
I walk back outside and sit down again. Having collected myself, I gather all the sternness I can muster.
“I refuse to obey your dictate. You do not make the rules around here. I do not care what you or any other bird thinks. It is my porch, and I will do as I please.”
The wren is unmoved.
“I am the oldest of the other wrens, my family and friends. They chose me to speak to you,” he explains. “Let me put it to you reasonably: This is where we live, in these trees and this grass. We eat, sleep here. It is our life. In the mornings, you sit staring blankly, for an hour, maybe two, which scares our young. Then you go back inside your man-made cage. You are a disturbance! A nuissance! Is that any way to treat us or our home?”
The bird raises his beak, exposing his gullet. He knows this makes him susceptible to attack, but he is too proud of what he said to care. After all, he was chosen and that is something. He must carry some importance in the wren community, maybe certain qualifications that render him especially capable in matters with humans. Maybe he’s done this sort of thing before. The Poobah-in-Chief I decide to call him.
“Look, I am nice to animals. I have two turtles I feed abundantly. I clean their tank regularly. See?”
“No.”
“Well, consider Doo-Rail. Poor Doo-Rail. He’s my cat. He has diabetes, and we, my parents mainly, give him insulin shots twice daily. On top of that, we put ointment on his belly three times a day for some red spot. Our cats are treated royally.”
At this point, I pick up locomotion, my words rolling quickly and effortlessly.
“I mean, they don’t lack. We love on them constantly. We play with them, throwing toys and such. We dote –”
“Yes, their lives are active, in your cages,” interrupted the Poobah-in-Chief. “However, only higher animals are capable of being bored, says Nietzsche. Man’s mind is ergo restless, in need of occupation; otherwise it is thrown into fidgetiness, or worse, maliciousness or destructiveness.”
How does this creature, a mere bird, even the Poobah-in-Chief of all wrens, know of Nietzsche? I desperately skedaddle into the house.
Later that night, as I slept, I dreamed. I see the wren, perched over me with a worm in his mouth, snapped in two and dangling from the wren’s beak. The sight makes me chortle. He says, “Just dare laugh. I will come after you. This will be you next.” Then I see myself, through the eyes of the Poobah-in-Chief, looking at myself from a window. I am waiting, waiting, waiting, for myself to expire, because I do not know how long humans live but I think it is not as long as wrens. When that happens, I will pummel open this window, saunter in, and peck out his eyes.
I awake, sweat on my face.
The next morning, Moyna remarks that it is going to be hotter than usual, and she worries about the dogs kept outside by our neighbors across the street. “You should bring over a bowl of water, for while the neighbors are at work. So the dogs can cool themselves,” she says.
I want to tell her, heat waves are part of our ecological process and humans should not interfere. Unless, of course, we are abiding by Al Gore. I want to tell her, why stop there? Let’s take Smokey Bear to the doctor. Surely inhaling forest fires has damaged his health. Maybe Smokey Bear posters should show him wearing a firefighter’s mask?
I don’t say those things because I can’t stop thinking about the wren, so a new thought occurs: we are part of the ecological process too. Our compassion is as much a factor as the heat waves.
The Poobah-in-Chief may be right, I think.
What finally converted me was the following exchange between President Bush and reporters on the news that night:
Reporter: With the popularity of the Iraq War around 30%, are you willing to consider a troop withdrawal?
Bush: Not at all. I am committed to finishing what I started, because I care about the welfare of the American people. I am riding this bull to the end, as we used to say in Texas.
Reporter: Mr. President, reports are suggesting that the price of a gallon of gas may rise to $4.00, maybe even $5.00. What say you about that, and what assurances would you give ordinary Americans who are worried about our current economy?
Bush: Uh, uhm. $4.00? Is that your prediction?
Reporter: It is not mine, sir. Many economists are predicting that.
Bush: I hadn’t heard that, so I don’t know what to say.
A curse has been laid. Imagine Bush’s children’s children and their children. They must live knowing that counted as their own is one of the worst presidents in history. Because he disregarded others, he went it alone. Without compassion for the people he should be serving. This may not affect him, but it is a curse for his progeny. Imagine George W. Bush IV, asked countless times, “You are related to the president, right?” He will answer a simple “Yes,” or he will skulk away, unable to bear his shame. It’s the same as with the Germans today, who carry the curse of being linked to the Holocaust, or with whites who argue for apologies and reparations since their ancestors subjected African-Americans to slavery and segregation.
Is this the fate I want I wish to strike upon my descendants? No! I do not want them to be victimized by an unfair portion of bird droppings on their cars. Or to be humiliated by having a bird feeder that no birds fly to. Or to make a trip to the lake only to see their bread crumbs float listlessly in the water. Is this to be my legacy to the generations that follow? To risk being forgotten because of a curse I made:
Tell me about great-granddaddy Freddy, momma, she will say.
We don’t speak of him, his mother will return.
Who am I to scoff Mother Nature’s creatures anyway?
Seeing my distress and newfound respect for him, the Poobah-in-Chief was sympathetic. He offered that I could sit on the back porch in the late afternoons from 3 to 5 PM, when his family and friends take a light snooze. Phew.
