Birds That Do Not Matter

by Anna Molenaar

“Birds” by Johnson Luong

I.

The House Sparrow (Latin name not worth knowing) can be found nearly everywhere. Their status is listed as being of “least concern” according to the scientists who decide how many of one animal is enough. They were introduced to most places with the best of intentions, in America as an attempt to control an invasive moth, but have proven extremely well suited to all places and are now invasive themselves. The House Sparrow is one of a handful of birds not protected by the Migratory Bird Treaty Act of 1918, and so are legal to kill in the same volumes that necessitated the law in the first place.

            Even in the so-called impartial world of ornithology, the House Sparrow holds no appeal. His call has been referred to as “incessant,” his feathers drab, and his behavior unremarkable from any other sparrow.  The House Sparrow has overstayed his welcome. But can you blame him? We set him free in a place with plenty of food, ample nesting sites, and the American Dream. Unsurprisingly, the House Sparrow took advantage.

            There is a neighborhood of House Sparrows living in the parking lot of the school in which I teach. The steel of the lampposts ends in a concrete base, and it is in the one-inch gap between the two that they have found refuge, peering out with dark eyes into my headlights in the early morning. While I am inside corralling five-year-olds, they are hopping between my car’s tires in search of food, beeping at one another and flitting off as soon as footsteps approach, more than content living in a place nobody but the desperate, the inventive and determined would even notice.

            Maybe the House Sparrow should form a support group for Birds Who Don’t Matter. Invite the pigeons, starlings, those seagulls that hang around grocery store parking lots. They’d invite the Canada goose, but he’s always too busy and secretly they’re all relieved because, come on, it’s a Canada Goose. They can meet somewhere on Wednesday nights to talk about their lives, how they used to be so loved. Wonder which bird will be next to switch positions in the humans’ favorability chart.

            The House Sparrow will fly home afterwards and wish he were something else. A better bird, flashier and more appreciated. He wouldn’t mind being a show pigeon. He hears they make a great living for doing basically nothing.

II.

            The Birmingham Roller Pigeon, by all accounts, appears to be normal. In fact, with her stately posture, sleek feathers of every color imaginable, and proud trot, she is a lovely bird to behold. But when she takes to the skies, it all falls away.

            By some genetic quirk, Roller Pigeons lose the ability to fly normally past adolescence. Instead, as they reach the apex of their flight pattern some invisible switch is flipped (and I do mean flipped) and the bird begins to...well...roll. The pigeon falls through the sky, turning tight, neat summersaults, until naive onlookers begin to worry she might come crashing to earth, then recovers, flying back up to the crest of her pattern to start all over again. While the neurological reasoning behind this behavior is not known, some theorize rolling began as a way to evade birds of prey in mid-air dogfights.

            Nowadays, Rollers are almost all captive bred, individuals paired for the best rolling performance, because instead of being judged on appearance or racing ability, Rollers in competitions are scored on the impressiveness of their rolls.

            Pigeon breeders are some of the nicest people you’ll talk to, and are happy to speak with newcomers about the joys of pigeon-keeping. Then they’ll gather their birds and head outside, where they’ll watch their prize animals seizure in the air, nature-crafted skill in flying stolen by men who adore putting their hands on nature and seeing what they can squeeze out. They are loved, doted on, but deprived of natural movement.

            I wonder if they know. If, while in the throes of a roll, their eyes whip to the side and see the brief silhouette of another bird in flight. I wonder what it is they feel then—jealousy, confusion, pain, yes, but what about wistfulness? Nostalgia? A longing to be young again, to be able to fly so free?

            If ever you are invited to a Roller Pigeon competition, I’d recommend heading downtown instead, where the pigeons run wild among garbage and alleyways the way God intended. The pigeon crap you see splattered on the sidewalks isn’t actually normal, did you know? The pigeons there are inundated with parasites that wreak havoc on their guts, the same way dairy affects me. Even in the wild they hold no more consequence than those birds pecking around in cages, accessories rather than main characters.

            But pigeons at least started off in relationships with humans, bred for food or to relay messages. They were originally looked upon with favor, like another bird I’m sure you’ve seen.

III.

            The first European Starlings were released into Central Park one day in the late 1800’s. Eugene Schieffelin, a member of the New York Zoological society, felt that the glorious birds mentioned in Shakespeare’s work, every one, should be brought to America so that all may experience the nature of his prose. So he set about fifty free in New York City. Today the European Starling is one of those few birds not protected by congress, and there are many who would like to see all of them driven out of America, so great are their numbers.

            Starlings can mimic sounds perfectly. They can be taught to recreate other bird’s songs, the whine of an ambulance, a clatter of ice being released from the freezer. And human speech. It is hard to see why they aren’t considered magical—after all, what other bird could flutter up to you on a bench, ruffle its feathers, and ask you in the perfect imitation of your neighbor what you’re reading?

            It’s a shame. Starlings have gorgeous iridescent feathers, and are entertaining to watch. Their song is impressive, and they possess a talent for mimicking other birds, sometimes after hearing a noise only once. They don’t mean to be a nuisance; they just need food and a place to live. Some ears to listen to their song.

            But to do this comes at the cost of others. There are finite resources in the rapidly declining wild, and to eat means others don’t. To claim a home means to leave another without one. And, unfortunately for the Starling, the powers that be have decided that, because they are doing so well, because they are winning, the rules should change. That they must be the losers.

IIII.

            I was almost an ornithologist. Zoology in general was (and is) a major passion of mine, and I’d spend so many afternoons after school reading every book on animal behavior and biology the library carried. I wanted nothing more but to be outdoors, sitting quietly and waiting for birds to come by so I could study them. I went as far as researching colleges in my senior year of high school, only to find that there were no undergraduate programs specifically for the study of birds.

            Fine, I’d be a zoologist then, and focus on birds whenever possible. But eventually I found a listing of required courses, and realized that to be a zoologist I’d need to pass more than a few chemistry and math classes. Now, I believe that you can do anything you put your mind to, and hard work beats everything, but I know for a fact that I am not built to do chemistry, and certainly not math.

            I am good at sitting for an hour and watching a House Wren labor at maneuvering twigs into a birdhouse. I am built to memorize the sound of birdcalls, to be researched later. And it’s contested in science, sure, but I am built for noticing the underlying emotions that drive living things, whether they are human or not.

            The House Sparrow is the working man’s bird. He toils, and appreciates everything he has, from the nest hidden safely in a gap by a streetlamp to his fat, fluffy chicks who bleat for food. He is pleasing to the eye, and comforting to all. The type of bird who would offer you a hot meal and bed to sleep in, if he could afford it or not.

            The Birmingham Roller Pigeon is a relentless tryer. She flies despite her condition, takes to the skies knowing she will tumble through the clouds, an Icarus whose wings never melt. She tries because she knows nothing else, and she’d rather feel the familiar flip of her tail as her brain whites out to nothingness than never feel the wind buffer her chest again, never recover to soar back up to full altitude and see, for a brief moment, the world writ small below her.

            European Starlings know they do not belong, but they tell no one. They pretend to be native, and hopes nobody asks from where they really hail. They cope by finding their kind, traveling in great flocks that take to the wing at a moment’s threat. There they may speak their own language, puff their feathers and call out to friends who will understand them perfectly. And even when they’re alone they call out in full volume, blending their own words with those they’ve heard around town, to form a new language all the more beautiful.

            I am a commoner. I have worked hard and gotten nothing, but also had the sweet taste of an unexpected success. I try. I try again. I wonder if I’m actually trying, or holding back because I know what it is to fail. I speak in a language that I hope is understood, knowing it will always be mistranslated. I hope to find my kind.

            These birds do not matter. But when I walk by a plump House Sparrow, I don’t think about the way that he’s pushing other small finches out of a home, or that he steals food meant for much rarer birds. I just notice the way his cheeks are round and his black throat patch undulates when he sings, in an incessant call without musical technicality but a single note that cuts through the air with a need everyone can understand.

Anna Molenaar is a writer of poetry and essays concerned with humanity, nature, and the messes that occur when the two interact. She lives in St. Paul, Minnesota, where she received her MFA from Hamline University. She works as a preschool teacher.

Johnson Luong, a hobbyist film photographer hailing from Toronto, Canada, embarked on his analog journey two years ago. With a curiosity for the timeless medium of film, Johnson has crafted a unique style that beautifully captures landscapes, the wonders of nature, and the calm of street life. He's often found with a camera in hand, ready to seize fleeting moments in unique locations, preserving their beauty to be remembered. Find him on Instagram @luongjohnson.