The Deeper Meaning of Tail Feathers

Yesterday I told you of poor Pippin's tail feathers. Every time I think of the actual plucking, I unintentionally practice twenty or thirty Kegel exercises in subconscious sympathy for the bird.

Since then I've imagined the events that lead to the crime. Thursday morning Carl took Katie and Hailey to school. When he returned he left Hannah inside to entertain herself while he prepared his truck for work. I picture her playing with her Leapster or watching the musical State Fair for a while, then noticing a lighthearted chirping coming from the big girls' room.

Up until that day Hannah had committed several small acts of vandalism, including dumping an entire bag of bird seed into the bottom of Pippin's cage or simply leaving the cage door open, but nothing harmful to the parakeet. She had attempted to capture Pippin without success, managing only to set the bird free to poop throughout the girls' bedroom.

That Thursday morning was different, though. In my mind's eye I see Hannah's walking into Pippin's room, approaching the birdcage and reaching for Pippin. Pippin anxiously avoided Hannah's pudgy hand until, to her surprise, she succeeded in capturing the frightened bird.

Did you ever hold a baby bird when you were a child, felt it's frantic heart beating until it pecked your fist? You probably released the bird upon the first little bite. You may have even cried. I imagine that's exactly what transpired between Hannah and Pippin, except for the part where Hannah should have released the bird and cried.

Pippin's tiny bird brain had no way of knowing that Hannah had used biting herself as a method of self-soothing since she was a toddler. She still sports the scabs and scars to prove it.




As Pippin pecked Hannah's already wounded hands, Hannah noticed the long tail feathers. Like a kid pulling a dog's fluffy tail, Hannah gave the feathers a tug. Surprise! The feather came out in her fat little fingers. Kegel. Kegel. Kegel. Unlike a dog's bite, Pippin's pecks were harmless.

Pluck.

Pluck.

Pluck. Pluck. Pluck.

I don't know what made Hannah quit, but I'm glad she did.

I'm going to take a giant leap and say that I identify with Pippin. Hannah was to Pippin what arthritis was to me when it first disrupted my life. Like Pippin, I lived a simple life, experiencing setbacks no bigger than having all of the birdseed dumped into the bottom of the cage or occasionally being ignored. I had long, beautiful tail feathers in my life: I was an above-average pianist, a straight-A college student, an energetic participant in intramural sports and extracurricular activities, all the while tying my identity and worth into those elements of me.

Almost as quickly as Hannah plucked Pippin's tail feathers, arthritis yanked those elements from my life. Nowadays Pippin hops back and forth between the two mirrors in his cage and I wonder what he sees, wonder what he thinks of the bird in the mirror. I thought he might react like a dog with a bad hair cut, sullen and humiliated. Surprisingly, he seems unaffected by the situation. Maybe he knows his tail feathers will grow back. Or maybe his tiny bird brain doesn't have a segment for vanity.

Like Pippin, I've had to grow new "tail feathers." But, my identification with the parakeet stops there. Pippin's tail feathers will look almost identical to the ones he lost. Mine look much different, the equivalent of bright red peacock-style feathers on a baby blue bird. Years of commitment to the piano have been replaced with a hit-and-miss, halfhearted attempt at writing. Intramural sports have transformed into regular attendance at an arthritis aquacize class otherwise attended by senior citizens. These tail feathers have the potential to become full and stunning if I give them my full attention, but they will always be red.

Maybe, though, as I age my other "feathers" will change from blue to red, so that my red tail feathers won't seem so odd. Eventually it won't seem strange that I'm part of a senior citizens' aquacize class: red body feathers. Many pianists develop arthritic hands and stop playing like they used to, maybe even replacing their piano playing with other creative outlets: more red body feathers.

It's a reach, I know. But we all have our tail feathers plucked at some point in our life. Some of us get them all yanked out at once and have to decide whether or not to lapse into self-pity and humiliation while we wait complacently for a few stragglers to grow back. Others of us experience a hidden, consistent loss of one tail feather at a time, which is, in some ways, more difficult in its tenacity and anonymity. I have to admit that a sick serendipity of having a deforming illness is that I don't have to suffer silently or alone.

I'm not sure how to conclude this. I've got these crazy, red peacock feathers growing out of my backside, clashing with the baby blue feathers of my life, and I'm trying to decide how much time and attention to give them. Focusing on them feels vain and selfish. But ignoring them leaves me depressed and resentful. Somewhere in between is Aristotle's golden mean.

Have you noticed any red tail feathers growing out of your rear end lately?