When Doves Cry
Because They're Pigeonholed
At some point in the aughts, after ditching the Friendster app, I joined Facebook on Karen’s recommendation. She thought it was something I was particularly suited for, given my social propensity. She had seen me negotiate AOL, engaging strangers in hours-long conversations in the 90s until it became noisy, uncomfortably randy, and untenable. Let’s give it a go, I thought.
It’s been almost 20 years.
It wasn’t long before Facebook became less about socializing and more about recounting my daily encounters. A public diary of sorts. When we moved to Chicago in 2010, I hit my stride. Every day, it seemed, the city offered experiential muses. My posts became longer and more personally reflective, even in the most mundane aspects of life. It was like a gift.
At some point, a comment from a friend back in Cleveland gave me a boost of confidence. He was an editor (still is) at Ohio Magazine. He wrote to say he hoped I had a central location for all the missives I’d been creating for Facebook. I didn’t. I wrote straight in the Facebook app and only did cursory editing– mostly correcting for typos and spelling errors. I promised myself that I would go through my history and copy and paste the best into text documents. I didn’t.
Eventually, I started a Blog and linked my Facebook account to it, then Google acquired the blog site and ruined it, like they ruin a lot of things in my opinion. Kind of like how Generation Whoever ruined—for me—written language with their insistence on opting for abbreviated or shortened words to such a degree that language languished to the point where paragraphs look like mathematical formulas, but nothing is being solved other than a desire for brevity. I mean, FFS, is it too much work that you’d rather say, “tevs?” If you know, you know. And what’s with the preface, “If I’m being honest…” when speaking out loud? That makes it longer. If you don’t start with clarifying your honesty, should we surmise you’re lying? SMDH.
I finally graduated. All my work is organized by place and time, and it all exists in Microsoft Word. Okay, knock it off, Eric. You made your point. You can write MS Word or just Word. Word is where all my work starts now, if not inked on paper.
As I continue to craft new material and gather older pieces to revise and improve, the database containing my words keeps growing. I have a problem, though. The past work sourced from Facebook is haphazard, relying mostly on “On This Day” memories fed to me. I need to go through year by year until I’ve captured everything relevant. I began that process last week. I started at the beginning—2007.
That year was easy. Not a lot there. It was more like texting back then, but without photos, and we weren’t even creating our own content. We wrote on each other’s pages, or walls as they were called back then. It was a sweet and simple time. The following are the most interactions I had in one day that year.
Michelle wrote
That was the longest dog walk...still waiting!?!?
Judy wrote
You love me!
Donna wrote
You are TOO funny...and it’s been way too long! Got your message the other day...as in a day later after you left it! Let’s get together soon. “The Giant Hand” will show us the way...kiss kiss!
Donna was quite fond of ellipses, apparently.
Rachel wrote
You are also so sweet! I hope all is well in OH! We are buried under a little snow today. Have you had any exhibits lately?
How times have changed. Sometimes, though, the more things change, the more they stay the same, depending on what you hold dear. I received the following reply to an instant message to a friend, a few days ago.
Tom wrote
The feeling is mutual, Eric. I love you too, my friend. You are a beautiful soul.
And now…
When Doves Cry
While going through my Facebook history last week, I came across a short piece about stirring up a flock of pigeons in Chicago. I copied and pasted it into an email to myself and forgot about it. Synchronicity, however, kept reminding me.
The following day, I saw a short statement designed for engagement(?) on another social media platform. The author wrote something like, “Just so you know, pigeons and doves are the same thing.”
I didn’t comment. Why would I? It’s true. They are essentially the same, save for differences in size. There’s nothing to argue, but isn’t social media geared toward debate? While pigeons and doves are the same animal, they have different names that conjure different feelings. Like, you wouldn’t walk up to a mourning dove and tell her, “You know, you’re just a pigeon.”
Why hurt her feelings? She’s already sad, mourning whatever she’s mourning. And the white dove, a symbol of peace? You’re not going to tell a magician’s partner he’s just a pigeon—he’ll shit on your head for disrespecting beauty. Think about how you’d feel as a human if someone called you a Homo Sapiens. Both terms mean the same thing, but c’mon. I’ll tell you what’s not the same—a fetus and a baby.
Furthermore, can you imagine Prince or Stevie Nicks crooning about pigeons? I also doubt that anyone would choose Pigeon Beauty Bar skin care products.
Another day, I was reminded again, as evidenced by the 9-across clue in The New York Times Mini crossword puzzle.
Wednesday, I watched the army of birds swarming the finch feeder, the multiple suet cages, and the high-volume decorative glass feeder filled with the irresistible mix of mealworm, fruit, nuts, and sunflower seed. All those birds like a 3 am rave scrambling for Molly and poppers—blue jay, cardinal, chickadee, titmouse, junco, sparrow, finch. The upside-down gang—red-belly, downy, hairy, red-head, nuthatch. And of course, the peaceful posse of mourning doves scavenging scraps on the ground. Poor things, I always think. Too fat to fly up and land safely on the feeder rim, I guess.
Thursday: I set up an iPhone on a tripod to record the action on the big feeder inches from the bathroom window where it hangs. When I ran through the footage an hour later, I couldn’t believe what I saw halfway through. It was as if the Universe heard me insult the doves, calling them fat and inflexible, so Mother Nature flipped me the bird and said, “Don’t be a dick, dummy. Do better.”
“I’m sorry, you’re right. In ten years, I’ve never seen a dove on that feeder, but as the corrective principle states: absence of evidence is not evidence of absence.”
Friday: Facebook shows me how long Chris Sorno and I have been friends, and of course, her profile picture includes a decorative addition—a white dove with an olive branch, which is indicative of Chris. She has a knack for seeking peace, and I admire that.
January 2010:
Exited the El train at Bryn Mawr and took a look around. Looks as though this area might be interesting on a day when temperatures aren’t as unbearably frigid as they are today. Though it is sunny. It’s sunny a lot in Chicago.
I stirred up some birds—spooked a flock of doves. People often ask why we never see juvenile pigeons. I know the answer: they are hiding. I know this because I saw one once. I crossed a no-longer-used steel bridge spanning the Cuyahoga River. I looked up and saw in the trusses a mother and “child” pair of pigeons. When the younger met my eye, it ducked back behind. It tentatively snuck a couple of peeks at me after, only to retreat for good.
And that’s my weird, but lovey dovey stack. Thank you for reading. Thank you for subscribing. Time to take flight and work on my next piece.
Reflections from where we were to where we're at with an eye for synchronicity on the wings of a dove, er..pigeon.