Saturday, July 17, 2004
k-mart birds
Not long ago, I took one of those multiple choice personality tests. I hate those tests. I hate them, because you always know what the bad answer is. The mentally unstable answer is obvious:
True or False
I receive messages that tell me what to do.
Most days, I find it difficult to get out of bed.
I feel like I am being watched.
I usually feel confident that most of my answers are going to fall in the “normal response” range. I try to answer honestly; I figure that one “yes” to the question: “I cry easily”, is not going to flag me as unstable. Surely, the test makes allowances for minor personality quirks and eccentricities.
But then, I got to this question - and I knew I was screwed:
I identify with lost and broken objects.
My answer to this question was the “wrong” answer. My answer was yes.
I identify with lost and broken things. Things that are cracked and rusted feel familiar, like an old friend. I love their strange, sad beauty. I have always been drawn to them.
This is why it is strange that George and I were such good friends. George was nothing like me. He was not introspective, and nothing ever seemed to bother him. I had a total of two serious conversations with George during the year that we were best friends. He just did not talk about things like that.
For George, life was easy, and simple, and fun. I was lost and broken when he met me. He was kind, and protective of me - but he never talked to me about it. He was just always there, and he always had a plan for something fun that we could do. Although I doubted that he really understood me, I never doubted that he loved me. And I do not doubt that his way of looking at the world was a gift. In many ways, he saved me.
The difference between George and me becomes clear when I think about K-Mart birds.
Birds in parking lots make me sad. They have always made me sad. In Florida, the parking lots are full of seagulls. As a child, I would look at those seagulls and wonder how they lost their way. I would think about them trapped in a hot, dirty parking lot when they were made to live at the beach. They should have been free. They should have been flying through air that tasted like wind and salt, not getting gray from car exhaust and heat. Instead of living with a view of sky and water, they were confined to street lamps and oil-stained asphalt. They ate the crumbs from discarded bags. Litter. As a child, I would listen to these birds, and their cries would sound like hopelessness.
I grew up this way, being sorry for the seagulls in parking lots. When I moved to Georgia, I found that the parking lots are full of small, brown birds. I don’t know what kind they are. George just called them “K-Mart birds”. He had this beautiful British accent and when we went places, he would always point out the birds in the parking lot and laugh at them. “Look!”, he would say. “More K-Mart birds.” He would shake his head: “Stupid birds”.
George was always looking for K-Mart birds. He pointed them out no matter where we went - in the parking lots at Waffle House, Target, downtown Athens, everywhere. He was fascinated by them. They made him shake his head and laugh.
Once, I asked him about it. Didn’t they have birds in parking lots in England? He said they did, but K-Mart birds were different. K-mart birds actually lived in the parking lots. I did not like it that George made fun of the birds. I thought that calling them “K-Mart birds” was offensive, like a bird-version of a racist joke.
“They are not K-Mart birds.”, I told him. “They are some other kind of bird that got stuck in a parking lot”. I told him that these birds made me sad. I told him about the lost seagulls in Florida. I hated thinking about birds living in parking lots. I hated seeing their nests tucked in the letters of a K-Mart sign. I told George that he should feel sorry for the birds - that he should call them sparrows, or wrens, or whatever kind of bird they really were.
George just laughed. He assured me that he was right to call them K-Mart birds. “There are trees across the street”, he said.
I thought about it, and I realized that George was right. There were trees just few hundred yards away. For some reason, the birds were choosing to sleep inside a sign and eat crumbs and scraps of trash. They were free to live on either side of the street, and they had picked the K-Mart side. I never thought of it this way before. It had never occurred to me that parking lot birds did not have to be parking lot birds.
As we were driving home, I conceded that he had a point in calling them K-Mart birds since K-Mart birds were what they chose to be. George just nodded, turned up the radio, and sang along to the Pogues. He said we ought to go downtown because he wanted me to meet some of his friends. When I started to look sad, this was always his answer: Turn up the music. Go downtown. Come on, it will be fun.
George was the best friend I ever had. He was always by my side, and he made me feel safe. The way he loved me was completely unselfish. Still, I always felt a little bit lonely when I was with him. There were so many places in me that he just did not understand. I am grateful beyond words for the way George took me by the hand and made so many things better, but there are places in my heart that he never fit inside of.
I identify with lost and broken things; I know the language of asphalt and crumbs. This is why I sometimes fail to give the right answer on multiple choice psychology tests.
George thought that the birds were stupid because they lived in parking lots. In some ways, I suppose he was right. But I also think that parking lot birds are brave.
Brave, and sad, and beautiful. My heart understands them.
I know what it is like to try to make a nest in the hard neon angle of an unkind blue letter. George could never understand that sometimes, cages have bars that only the person inside the cage can see.
I want to learn the real names of the small, brown birds. I want to tell them that they are not really K-Mart birds. I want to remind them that they have better names.
I want to tell them that it is okay; there are trees right across the road.
They can find a better kind of free.
True or False
I receive messages that tell me what to do.
Most days, I find it difficult to get out of bed.
I feel like I am being watched.
I usually feel confident that most of my answers are going to fall in the “normal response” range. I try to answer honestly; I figure that one “yes” to the question: “I cry easily”, is not going to flag me as unstable. Surely, the test makes allowances for minor personality quirks and eccentricities.
But then, I got to this question - and I knew I was screwed:
I identify with lost and broken objects.
My answer to this question was the “wrong” answer. My answer was yes.
I identify with lost and broken things. Things that are cracked and rusted feel familiar, like an old friend. I love their strange, sad beauty. I have always been drawn to them.
This is why it is strange that George and I were such good friends. George was nothing like me. He was not introspective, and nothing ever seemed to bother him. I had a total of two serious conversations with George during the year that we were best friends. He just did not talk about things like that.
For George, life was easy, and simple, and fun. I was lost and broken when he met me. He was kind, and protective of me - but he never talked to me about it. He was just always there, and he always had a plan for something fun that we could do. Although I doubted that he really understood me, I never doubted that he loved me. And I do not doubt that his way of looking at the world was a gift. In many ways, he saved me.
The difference between George and me becomes clear when I think about K-Mart birds.
Birds in parking lots make me sad. They have always made me sad. In Florida, the parking lots are full of seagulls. As a child, I would look at those seagulls and wonder how they lost their way. I would think about them trapped in a hot, dirty parking lot when they were made to live at the beach. They should have been free. They should have been flying through air that tasted like wind and salt, not getting gray from car exhaust and heat. Instead of living with a view of sky and water, they were confined to street lamps and oil-stained asphalt. They ate the crumbs from discarded bags. Litter. As a child, I would listen to these birds, and their cries would sound like hopelessness.
I grew up this way, being sorry for the seagulls in parking lots. When I moved to Georgia, I found that the parking lots are full of small, brown birds. I don’t know what kind they are. George just called them “K-Mart birds”. He had this beautiful British accent and when we went places, he would always point out the birds in the parking lot and laugh at them. “Look!”, he would say. “More K-Mart birds.” He would shake his head: “Stupid birds”.
George was always looking for K-Mart birds. He pointed them out no matter where we went - in the parking lots at Waffle House, Target, downtown Athens, everywhere. He was fascinated by them. They made him shake his head and laugh.
Once, I asked him about it. Didn’t they have birds in parking lots in England? He said they did, but K-Mart birds were different. K-mart birds actually lived in the parking lots. I did not like it that George made fun of the birds. I thought that calling them “K-Mart birds” was offensive, like a bird-version of a racist joke.
“They are not K-Mart birds.”, I told him. “They are some other kind of bird that got stuck in a parking lot”. I told him that these birds made me sad. I told him about the lost seagulls in Florida. I hated thinking about birds living in parking lots. I hated seeing their nests tucked in the letters of a K-Mart sign. I told George that he should feel sorry for the birds - that he should call them sparrows, or wrens, or whatever kind of bird they really were.
George just laughed. He assured me that he was right to call them K-Mart birds. “There are trees across the street”, he said.
I thought about it, and I realized that George was right. There were trees just few hundred yards away. For some reason, the birds were choosing to sleep inside a sign and eat crumbs and scraps of trash. They were free to live on either side of the street, and they had picked the K-Mart side. I never thought of it this way before. It had never occurred to me that parking lot birds did not have to be parking lot birds.
As we were driving home, I conceded that he had a point in calling them K-Mart birds since K-Mart birds were what they chose to be. George just nodded, turned up the radio, and sang along to the Pogues. He said we ought to go downtown because he wanted me to meet some of his friends. When I started to look sad, this was always his answer: Turn up the music. Go downtown. Come on, it will be fun.
George was the best friend I ever had. He was always by my side, and he made me feel safe. The way he loved me was completely unselfish. Still, I always felt a little bit lonely when I was with him. There were so many places in me that he just did not understand. I am grateful beyond words for the way George took me by the hand and made so many things better, but there are places in my heart that he never fit inside of.
I identify with lost and broken things; I know the language of asphalt and crumbs. This is why I sometimes fail to give the right answer on multiple choice psychology tests.
George thought that the birds were stupid because they lived in parking lots. In some ways, I suppose he was right. But I also think that parking lot birds are brave.
Brave, and sad, and beautiful. My heart understands them.
I know what it is like to try to make a nest in the hard neon angle of an unkind blue letter. George could never understand that sometimes, cages have bars that only the person inside the cage can see.
I want to learn the real names of the small, brown birds. I want to tell them that they are not really K-Mart birds. I want to remind them that they have better names.
I want to tell them that it is okay; there are trees right across the road.
They can find a better kind of free.
