Bird v. Woman
Recently I woke up at 5:45 in the morning, on a Saturday. I woke because I heard a sound in my house. My roommate was away and I was alone, so my mind raced to thoughts of an intruder. Not just one intruder actually, but multiple. Multiple drug-addicted thieves who had finally entered my house, having left it and me unharmed for a whole year. It was finally happening. I lay paralyzed in bed, listening for more noise, and after a few minutes I could hear something moving in the bedroom next door. It did occur to me that perhaps Susan had come home, stopped in to pick something up and because of the early hour had determined it best not to call and let me know that she would be in the house. That could be it. But I was fairly certain that the noise I was hearing was not coming from Susan. I heard the sound of window blinds and began to wonder if some kind of animal was on her window sill. I knew she had left her windows open so that there would be fresh air even in her absence. Perhaps it was a squirrel standing on the sill and rustling the blinds a little.
That is a much better image to have in one’s mind than an image of drug-addicted thieves ransacking one’s home, going room by room and collecting DVD players, iPods, silverware, and whatever else they havethe inclination to take. Much better to have a squirrel on one’s sill, and yet such an image is far less compelling and so I returned to the thieves and the fury that I was about to awaken in them as I caught them in the act. Before I could get out of bed and stumble upon their illegal activity, I would have to come to terms with my wardrobe situation. I was in a nightgown, a simple black knit nightgown with spaghetti straps. Nothing overtly sexy, something simple and practical, stopping just above the knee. To step out of my bedroom in that would probably invite rape, I told myself. If one catches robbers in the act they will be furious and they will turn on a nightgown wearing innocent woman and commit rape. “No,” I said to myself, “I cannot think that. To think that runs counter to what I believe as a feminist. One does not asked to be raped. They may be just a bit more aware that I am a woman if I am wearing a nightgown, but I am no more complicit in my own attack than if I were wearing pajamas.” When one has drug-addicted robbers in one’s home, this kind of internal deconstruction is important. It is best to clarify what you truly believe before walking into certain rape and murder. Or so I believe.
I managed to return to the squirrel possibility, talking myself out of the murderous thieves scenario, and finally stepped out of my bed. I walked into the other room and quickly saw the trouble. A bird had flown into the room and gotten stuck between the window pane and the blinds and my presence in the room was causing the bird a great deal of anxiety. It started flapping its wings like crazy, only getting them tangled in the blinds. I was horrified. All I could think of was the Hitchcock movie The Birds. I ran out of the room and closed the door. If nothing else I would at least contain its flight pattern. The last thing I wanted was some half-crazed bird flying about the house.
I called 911 and they quickly…yes, I really called 911. I know you think I’m crazy – really, I know you think this, because every time I tell this story to someone they interrupt me and say something like, “No! You didn’t really call 911?!” I guess I figured that if firemen were always getting cats out of trees surely one of them could come over to the home of a nightgown wearing woman with a bird stuck in her roommate’s bedroom. And so I called 911 and they quickly informed me that this was not the sort of thing they get involved with. But they were kind enough to ask about the size of the bird and when I told them I thought it could be a crow they sounded alarmed and found me a phone number for a wildlife rescue agency. I called the agency. I called my landlord and I called my mom. No one answered the phone – it was after all, only 6 in the morning on a Saturday. I was beside myself. I had no idea how to get that bird out – and it was big! Not just a little sparrow, but a big bird, only slightly smaller than a pigeon. If I did not get it out it could potentially die in that room. It would die and it would start to rot unless I picked it up. But if I went to pick it up I would no doubt discover that it was actually still alive and it would flap and peck at me and send distressed calls out and other birds would be alerted and they would come, enraged, entering my home and attacking me in order to avenge this bird’s inevitable death. All the more reason to just leave it up there I guess, locked in the room, taking all the time it needed to die quietly. But then it would rot, and there would be maggots to deal with and that was just more than I was ready to take on. Once again, I found the motivation to move.
I went outside to assess the predicament from the lawn and there was the bird trying, trying, trying to fly through the glass window. (No, I was not still in my nightgown.) It was perched in the middle of the window, on the upper frame of the lower pane of glass. It stood there, not realizing that it needed to drop down to get to the opening of the window where it could fly out. It would spread its wings, get them caught in the blinds, start to panic and then bang its beak against the glass, trying to fly through the window. Then it would grow still and stay still for a couple minutes. And then, once again, it would open its wings, get caught, get panicked, and try to fly through a section of the window just a little to the left. Then it would grow still again. Over and over again the bird repeated this pattern.
I stood there shaking my head and I started to cry a little. I cried, not because I pitied the bird and its predicament. I cried because it just felt like such a frustrating fresh proof of my singleness. I couldn't turn to a husband to take care of this for me – this was mine to deal with – this big freaked out bird that would probably fly right into my face if I got near it and then I'd look like that guy in the movie who got his eyes pecked out by the dreadful, malicious birds. So I stood there and prayed to God. I prayed, “If you care about this bird, and if you care about me, could you please usher this bird out of the window? I think that would be a really good, concrete demonstration of your love for me.” I waited a few minutes. Then I added to my original prayer, saying that it would be okay if help came in a human form, perhaps some stranger walking down the street, or my landlord. God did not actually need to whisper to the bird and create a full-fledged miracle. And then it occurred to me that maybe I was that human form. I was not pleased at that prospect. It did not strike me as a profound realization. I was not amused.
So I opened the garage, picked up a plastic rake with a nice long handle, headed upstairs, and put on my protective clothing. What protective clothing? Well, that would be jeans and a hooded sweatshirt. I drew the strings of the sweatshirt tight around my face and put on my glasses. I opened the bedroom door and the bird started freaking out. I let it settle down and then slowly advanced with the rake and from halfway across the room, used its prongs to grab the bottom of the blinds and lift them away from the window so the bird could move its wings. The bird was agitated for a few seconds and then started moving from one side of its perch to the other, pacing the length of the window. It did not think about dropping down – it was still focused on the pane of glass in front of it, still trying to poke through it, no doubt dizzy from all the times it had already banged its head against the glass. And I rolled my eyes and thought, “God, come on, please get this bird to go out!” I simpered and pleased with God. Minutes went by and my arms started getting tired from holding the rake and I started trying to figure out what else I could do. Should I try to use the rake to shoo it out? What if I accidentally hit it, and hit it hard, either killing it or getting it really upset? What if I were to get closer and it started flying around the small room, shitting all over the place?
Finally, I opted to start bringing the blinds back closer to the bird, and I think what happened was that the blinds kind of bumped his head and the bird got frightened and it slipped off its perch and kind of dropped further down the window and then suddenly it found the opening and was out of the house. With me repeating over and over again, “Oh, God, please let it get out. Oh, God please, let it get out.”
And if I haven’t already given you proof that my mind is a very strange one, let me now tell you that in the middle of getting really angry with the bird for still trying to fly through the glass even after I’d made the way clear – in the midst of becoming more and more distressed that this bird was never going to get out, I thought, “This would actually make for a good sermon illustration. I've got some holes in my sermon for tomorrow and this is just the thing I could use." It’s true. Exhausted, fearful, anxious to have that bird out of my house, I was struck by the image of that bird continually striking the window over and over again, trying to fly through it no matter how many times it had failed to be able to do so before. And I was struck by my own likeness to that bird, unable to see another way within reach, unable to imagine anything more than the perch I’m on and the bit of world that I can see immediately in front of me. I need out – I need freedom, and surely the way out is right before me, but it’s not working, so I try again and again and hope for a different result. Until someone else comes, makes a way, perhaps even knocks me off my perch so that I can see the world before me differently and discover an open window to fly through. And that is where I am today, off my perch, robbed of my "necessary" pane of glass, and trying to sniff out the open spot that is surely not too distant.
That is a much better image to have in one’s mind than an image of drug-addicted thieves ransacking one’s home, going room by room and collecting DVD players, iPods, silverware, and whatever else they havethe inclination to take. Much better to have a squirrel on one’s sill, and yet such an image is far less compelling and so I returned to the thieves and the fury that I was about to awaken in them as I caught them in the act. Before I could get out of bed and stumble upon their illegal activity, I would have to come to terms with my wardrobe situation. I was in a nightgown, a simple black knit nightgown with spaghetti straps. Nothing overtly sexy, something simple and practical, stopping just above the knee. To step out of my bedroom in that would probably invite rape, I told myself. If one catches robbers in the act they will be furious and they will turn on a nightgown wearing innocent woman and commit rape. “No,” I said to myself, “I cannot think that. To think that runs counter to what I believe as a feminist. One does not asked to be raped. They may be just a bit more aware that I am a woman if I am wearing a nightgown, but I am no more complicit in my own attack than if I were wearing pajamas.” When one has drug-addicted robbers in one’s home, this kind of internal deconstruction is important. It is best to clarify what you truly believe before walking into certain rape and murder. Or so I believe.
I managed to return to the squirrel possibility, talking myself out of the murderous thieves scenario, and finally stepped out of my bed. I walked into the other room and quickly saw the trouble. A bird had flown into the room and gotten stuck between the window pane and the blinds and my presence in the room was causing the bird a great deal of anxiety. It started flapping its wings like crazy, only getting them tangled in the blinds. I was horrified. All I could think of was the Hitchcock movie The Birds. I ran out of the room and closed the door. If nothing else I would at least contain its flight pattern. The last thing I wanted was some half-crazed bird flying about the house.
I called 911 and they quickly…yes, I really called 911. I know you think I’m crazy – really, I know you think this, because every time I tell this story to someone they interrupt me and say something like, “No! You didn’t really call 911?!” I guess I figured that if firemen were always getting cats out of trees surely one of them could come over to the home of a nightgown wearing woman with a bird stuck in her roommate’s bedroom. And so I called 911 and they quickly informed me that this was not the sort of thing they get involved with. But they were kind enough to ask about the size of the bird and when I told them I thought it could be a crow they sounded alarmed and found me a phone number for a wildlife rescue agency. I called the agency. I called my landlord and I called my mom. No one answered the phone – it was after all, only 6 in the morning on a Saturday. I was beside myself. I had no idea how to get that bird out – and it was big! Not just a little sparrow, but a big bird, only slightly smaller than a pigeon. If I did not get it out it could potentially die in that room. It would die and it would start to rot unless I picked it up. But if I went to pick it up I would no doubt discover that it was actually still alive and it would flap and peck at me and send distressed calls out and other birds would be alerted and they would come, enraged, entering my home and attacking me in order to avenge this bird’s inevitable death. All the more reason to just leave it up there I guess, locked in the room, taking all the time it needed to die quietly. But then it would rot, and there would be maggots to deal with and that was just more than I was ready to take on. Once again, I found the motivation to move.
I went outside to assess the predicament from the lawn and there was the bird trying, trying, trying to fly through the glass window. (No, I was not still in my nightgown.) It was perched in the middle of the window, on the upper frame of the lower pane of glass. It stood there, not realizing that it needed to drop down to get to the opening of the window where it could fly out. It would spread its wings, get them caught in the blinds, start to panic and then bang its beak against the glass, trying to fly through the window. Then it would grow still and stay still for a couple minutes. And then, once again, it would open its wings, get caught, get panicked, and try to fly through a section of the window just a little to the left. Then it would grow still again. Over and over again the bird repeated this pattern.
I stood there shaking my head and I started to cry a little. I cried, not because I pitied the bird and its predicament. I cried because it just felt like such a frustrating fresh proof of my singleness. I couldn't turn to a husband to take care of this for me – this was mine to deal with – this big freaked out bird that would probably fly right into my face if I got near it and then I'd look like that guy in the movie who got his eyes pecked out by the dreadful, malicious birds. So I stood there and prayed to God. I prayed, “If you care about this bird, and if you care about me, could you please usher this bird out of the window? I think that would be a really good, concrete demonstration of your love for me.” I waited a few minutes. Then I added to my original prayer, saying that it would be okay if help came in a human form, perhaps some stranger walking down the street, or my landlord. God did not actually need to whisper to the bird and create a full-fledged miracle. And then it occurred to me that maybe I was that human form. I was not pleased at that prospect. It did not strike me as a profound realization. I was not amused.
So I opened the garage, picked up a plastic rake with a nice long handle, headed upstairs, and put on my protective clothing. What protective clothing? Well, that would be jeans and a hooded sweatshirt. I drew the strings of the sweatshirt tight around my face and put on my glasses. I opened the bedroom door and the bird started freaking out. I let it settle down and then slowly advanced with the rake and from halfway across the room, used its prongs to grab the bottom of the blinds and lift them away from the window so the bird could move its wings. The bird was agitated for a few seconds and then started moving from one side of its perch to the other, pacing the length of the window. It did not think about dropping down – it was still focused on the pane of glass in front of it, still trying to poke through it, no doubt dizzy from all the times it had already banged its head against the glass. And I rolled my eyes and thought, “God, come on, please get this bird to go out!” I simpered and pleased with God. Minutes went by and my arms started getting tired from holding the rake and I started trying to figure out what else I could do. Should I try to use the rake to shoo it out? What if I accidentally hit it, and hit it hard, either killing it or getting it really upset? What if I were to get closer and it started flying around the small room, shitting all over the place?
Finally, I opted to start bringing the blinds back closer to the bird, and I think what happened was that the blinds kind of bumped his head and the bird got frightened and it slipped off its perch and kind of dropped further down the window and then suddenly it found the opening and was out of the house. With me repeating over and over again, “Oh, God, please let it get out. Oh, God please, let it get out.”
And if I haven’t already given you proof that my mind is a very strange one, let me now tell you that in the middle of getting really angry with the bird for still trying to fly through the glass even after I’d made the way clear – in the midst of becoming more and more distressed that this bird was never going to get out, I thought, “This would actually make for a good sermon illustration. I've got some holes in my sermon for tomorrow and this is just the thing I could use." It’s true. Exhausted, fearful, anxious to have that bird out of my house, I was struck by the image of that bird continually striking the window over and over again, trying to fly through it no matter how many times it had failed to be able to do so before. And I was struck by my own likeness to that bird, unable to see another way within reach, unable to imagine anything more than the perch I’m on and the bit of world that I can see immediately in front of me. I need out – I need freedom, and surely the way out is right before me, but it’s not working, so I try again and again and hope for a different result. Until someone else comes, makes a way, perhaps even knocks me off my perch so that I can see the world before me differently and discover an open window to fly through. And that is where I am today, off my perch, robbed of my "necessary" pane of glass, and trying to sniff out the open spot that is surely not too distant.
Comments
i am inspired and cheered. the bird started to get the best of you, but through tears and fears and courage...you landed on the other side...triumphant.
kb