Prelude
This is experimental. It incorporates traditional balladic poetry (in iambic pentameter for you Shakespeare nerds) with true history in folk style and personal narrative. Anyone who knows me knows I have a soft spot for pigeons. Here’s why.
I sing to-day in time both old and new, The story of a bird oft-bruised on sight. In Central Park there flapped a winged beast That I a-walking did disturb its flight.
The Apologist
I’m sorry that I got too close with my limp lettuce. Thanks for eating it anyway. I’m sorry I tried to woo you by playing hard to get. You were smart enough to see right through my feeble attempt at having game. I’m sorry my coos weren’t avian enough to get your attention. Gee, we’re not even in the same species. What was I thinking, trying to get you to come talk to me?
I was thinking that I needed some sort of therapy animal. I was thinking that by feeding you, I’d make myself feel better. I was thinking that, even though the class I had just coached seemed no better off for my presence, maybe some living thing could be.
The fowl had on its hind a single leg. 'Twas lost to trap, or rat that gnaws and chops. He could not waddle like his kind should do. Instead he moved in short and stilted hops.
The Historian
Sit, my child, and let us sing the ballad of your kin.
You don’t know it; your brain weighs no more than a penny and has not even a cent of self-awareness, but you are descended from giants. The very tyrant lizard king of old was your grandmother. Her enormity and your minuteness hold why you survived the asteroid and she was left to be uncovered by people in the desert with brushes and shovels and archeology degrees. When the world was awash in smoke and brimstone, scarce food made your diminutiveness necessary. Your larger ancestors collapsed under the weight of their own need.
Right from the start you were playing the hand you had been dealt. After the destruction, your foremothers had sons and those sons had daughters who had daughters and sons and you had grown that sharp spike in your head that beats, “Home is this way.”
He hopped to me with timid head all cocked, I offered him a piece of leaf in hand. He took it, after careful thought, at once And to his beak the lettuce did remand.
The Narrator
Did you know that every pigeon on every street in America is descended from a pet pigeon? That’s right! As the oldest domesticated bird, pigeons have been working symbiotically with humans for over 10,000 years.
Columba Livia, as they are known to scientists, were used extensively before the invention of the telegraph because of a handy-dandy evolutionary quirk called the “homing ability.” Pigeons can find their way home after being blindly transported more than 620 miles away. Any human you know who could do that without Google Maps? I don’t think so!
Fun fact: those white doves you see at weddings? Those are pigeons too! White, black, or somewhere in between, if it flies and it can get back home, it’s probably a pigeon. In the 19th century, financiers such as the Dutch East India Trading Company bred, raised, and trained pigeons to carry messages. Faster, cheaper, and more reliable than the pony post, these aviators were ideal carriers to get information somewhere quickly. Homing pigeons also found a role serving in the armed forces. 32 of them received the Dickin Medal (the animal’s Victoria Cross) for their gallantry in saving human lives during World War I. How about that?
But, it wasn’t all fun and games for these plucky little guys. Once the telegraph was widely available, a message that would have taken hours to send by pigeon could be sent in minutes by dit and dah. The effort of training and keeping pigeons simply wasn’t worth it anymore. Breeders set their flocks free by the hundreds, thinking the birds would die off after a few generations. But anyone who’s been downtown in a city knows just how wrong these breeders were. Pigeons thrived in their new environment. Now there are more than 4 million pigeons in the city of NYC alone. Considered by many to be the “rats of the sky,” these doves are thought of as pesky, pestilent potential vectors for disease. Many cities even have pigeon population control programs. It just goes to show: too much of a good thing…
He seemed to me a sorry little thing, Stuck in a place so dangerous for him. Dependent on our food to make him whole, But future he had not. He'd only grim.
The Historian
I’m proud of how far you’ve come, my child.
When the humans threw you out like another piece of trash, what did you do?
You seized upon the very refuse they had made you into and used it to multiply yourself into a force of nature. You ate their trash, you lived on the buildings you were now denied access to, you refused to let them forget the evil they had done to you. There is a pigeon on every corner. You have eyes, ears, wings in every place where people gather. You have weathered sickness, hatred, and each torment thrown at you, and still you persist.
You are a pocket of nature, a bastion crying into the universe, “Life finds a way!” And should they remove you, should the wind buffet you far off to some desolate corner, inside you there will always ring, “Home is this way.”
His head a muted, noble shade of gray, He looked at me, abruptly was transfixed. Appearing to forgive at last my sin, And I, in brilliant gaze, was now affixed.
The Apologist
I was just the latest in a long line of humans to take advantage of a pigeon. First, it was domesticating wild pigeons, taking them out of their chosen mode of existence, then it was turning them loose when they no longer served us, now it was me using this poor Captain Ahab to feel better about my awful day. So I want to apologize.
We hate you because humans hate mirrors. We hate you because we looked at you and saw the worst version of ourselves. We saw the monsters that took control of an entire living species, shaped it to our will, and then treated it like dirt as soon as we had a shinier toy to play with. Now you are diseased and broken, torn and tattered. Now you root through mountains of other things we decided weren’t worth keeping. And we dare to call you the dirty ones?
I’m sorry that we couldn’t handle the consequences of our actions. I’m sorry that the only judgment my species cares about is the judgment that wears our face. You are beings on this earth too. You deserved our protection. You needed us—no; we made you need us, and we let you down. As I looked at you, I wanted to vow not to let you down again, but of course, I could do nothing for every one of your ancestors who suffered at the hands of mine.
I wonder: when you were cast out, did you still believe that a warm and gentle hand would hold you, to remind you of when you were loved?
The one-legged pigeon took off with my last piece of lettuce in his beak, joining his flock above, each flap of his wings forever chanting, “Home is this way.”
-JT
Postscript
Thanks for reading, everyone! I wanted to share one more pigeon-related item of the day.
My friend
sent me this short film by acclaimed French animator Sylvain Chomet. It’s about 20 minutes long, and it’s “delightful (and somewhat disturbing).” If that’s your cup of tea—it sure is mine—watch it here: The Old Lady and the Pigeons.Do something this week to make the world a better place. See you Friday.
In Manhattan's hustle, where towers loom high,
A youth amid the urban bustle thrives.
With solace sought in skies, where pigeons fly,
Yet humans' neglect, their feathered kin deprives.
.
With crumbs in hand, he makes new winged friends,
Whose trust he earns through kindness, day by day.
'Mid city's rush, their bond begins to blend,
As smpathy ignites, herein displayed.
.
In sorry whispers, he seeks to atone,
For history's snub, man's cruel, dismissive gaze.
Of pigeons' plight, a story to be sown,
Forging anew a bond that time betrays.
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Keep forging those bonds with those forsaken birds, JT. Your grandpa would be proud.
Hmmm, I’ve always had such mixed emotions about pigeons, now they are even more tumultuous. I love their cooing in the morning, but their eyes haunt me. I’m captivated by the iridescent feathers on their necks, but turn away in horror at a mangled foot or wing. And now to know that we humans are also the ones to blame for pigeons current predicament is just one more thing to scratch my head at about them.