When I think about pigeons, I think about abandonment and life afterwards—
And why does being a woman feel similar to it?
What do you know about pigeons? What do you know about having wings and domestication? To be venerated only for mail-retrieving and sustenance, useful just when you are rid of gumption— to satisfy, and only so; to be revered by being small obedient and discreet, otherwise, a nuisance in the street or when their numbers get big, when their voices do sing, when they spread their wings, so a bird uses her feet just as you do;
So do you know about pigeons? I bet you a woman would.
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When I think about pigeons, I think about abandonment and life afterwards.
Did you know pigeons were revered as important birds a long time ago? They were domesticated for food and as messengers in ancient Mesopotamia and the World Wars. They reportedly have great natural homing abilities that allow them never to fail in tracing their way back home, no matter what happens. They were loved and important. They were used to race for entertainment, too. They became pets to some. They were venerated birds. Then, one day, everything changed.
One day, we didn’t need birds for entertainment. The system of sending messages became faster than their wings could flap. We found countless other animals to domesticate and slaughter for sustenance. One day, these well-loved animals were abandoned. And I can’t help but think, why does being a woman feel similar to it?
For women, our softness and nurturing nature is what is valued about us the most. It is something innate in us, the reason why we even call it femininity. Gentleness is so carefully laced within our being that it has become the one thing we are primarily hunted for—like birds in the wild or those housed in gilded cages. Either way, our wings don’t quite always feel like our own—as if they belonged to someone else. We were taught that there was some purpose when we stay small, when we’re tucking our wings in or offering ourselves up for holy sacrifice. We learn this early on; that there is importance in our humble feminity, but only when it is serving the patriarchal society. Why is it that when we serve our purpose, we are loved, but when we come in numbers, when we caw out the frustration from our guts and demand for our rights—when we are left nothing but as a free bird—we are a nuisance?
The way I saw it, they love us in cages; they love us in kitchens, in homes, in bedrooms, and as pretty decorations in places of power. They love us when we come by ones or pairs; by threes could be exciting, too, but perhaps nothing more. They love it when we follow their tune and adjust to their ever-changing winds. They love us when we’re useful, when we follow their lead. Eventually, we learn their ways. Perhaps we tuck our wings in for a while and let our legs take over our need for flight, just like they would. Or learn to follow commands, be domesticated. If there’s one thing we’re good at, it’s adapting. Perhaps we think, why should we throw away the opportunity to be loved? To be better appreciated? To be wanted, needed, respected. So perhaps we tell ourselves, “Maybe this way, life would be easier.”
But oh, are we set to fail. Of course, we love to spread our wings. Of course, we would follow the call of the wind. Above our need for adoration, we love being free. What can I say? It is in our nature to fly. We were built to soar past kings and towers and pass through ceilings—even pigeons get tired of walking. In exchange, we face the backlash of our freedom. We accept the things we’d have to lose. The things that would’ve fueled our outdated systems of faith and love, or what would’ve been the wind beneath the wings that would otherwise carry us further. That is precisely why we need to shed it out and leave it behind, this long-expired season of ours. We might face harsher winds, but we accept this in exchange for what we truly value most: our freedom.
When I think about life after abandonment, I think about how pigeons continue to walk among us as if history has never happened. I think about how they fly to the park and back to their nesting place—ordinary and mundane. I think about how they are pitied for their odd way of building a home, as if it hasn’t existed long before the age of towers and skyscrapers, and how they never hold shame for it regardless. I think about how they are called rock doves, as if they are a tougher version of what we use to symbolize purity and peace. I think about how they do everything just as they please, feasting on crumbs and bread, on sidewalk love from little old ladies who, just like them, have found life and liberty after abandonment, again and again.