TWO REASONS I AM DEFINITELY not here protesting the removal of this Confederate statue: because I am a white supremacist who wants to protect a racist legacy, or because I am a pigeon who has laid an egg on this statue somewhere.
Listen, like you, I am a human being. I have zero feathers but many gangly appendages covered in skin, and I am flightless. Yet in spite of this, I love these statues, and not because their little metal hats are great places in which to build a foundation of carefully selected twigs, twine, and assorted debris, then lay a warm, beautiful egg that will someday hatch into a magnificent, glorious bird, the king of the air.
I am one of the “very fine people” whom President Trump was talking about, definitely a person, who was there to protest the taking down of the statue for human reasons that had nothing to do with racism or the nest of vulnerable white eggs currently exposed in that Confederate general’s hat.
I am a human being like you, a featherless biped with hairs all over my epidermis. And I am not a racist. I don’t know what the word “racism” means. Also, I don’t see color. I perceive light on the ultraviolet spectrum. As everyone here does, I hope. That is how we humans perceive light, I am pretty sure.
Getting rid of these statues would be for the birds, an expression I use in its derogatory sense, as we humans often do.
Like so many of us here, I do not have a racist bone in my body, though if I did that racist bone would definitely be dense and not hollow. I just want to protect my nest egg—NOT a literal egg in a nest, of course, but one of those metaphorical nest eggs we human beings are always so upset about. Economic anxiety? Yes, I have that. That is what I have. My nest egg, again, is metaphorical, not literally on this statue right now, vulnerable and exposed with its white shell open to the elements. KEEP THAT TORCH AWAY from what is definitely not my only genetic legacy, but a beautifully constructed nest that is unaffiliated with me, a human protester.
This is a normal request from me, a human, perched here with you in solidarity on my two appendages. I am not here to fan the flames of hatred, an action that I would do with hands and not wings, obviously. I am not a hawk, nor a dove. I am not a bird at all, again. I am not affiliated with any sort of organization with “coo” or “clucks” in its name, neither for racist reasons nor for the reason that these are noises a bird would make. I distance myself from both of those things equally.
Like so many of you, when I look at this statue, I do not see a figure of hate. I don’t see a figure at all, honestly. More of a blur. And that is not because I am viewing it from above while soaring aloft on the wings that are the greatest boon that can be bestowed by nature, but for another reason that I do not need to spell out.
Like all of you, I just want to keep this statue here for reasons that do not have anything to do with wanting to defecate on it, lay eggs on it, or perch on it to preen my beautiful gray feathers. Or, of course, racism. Those are just a few of the MULTIPLE reasons that I do not have for wanting this statue to stay exactly where it is, conveniently located near a man on a bench who often eats french fries—a fellow man, I should say, a fellow very fine being who has hideous bone protrusions at the opening to his alimentary canal that he uses to masticate food, just as I do.
This isn’t a pigeon issue. This statue doesn’t provide succor to just racists and pigeons. Who among us has not sheltered here during a high wind and enjoyed a french fry he or she found on the sidewalk and lifted with great effort?
I don’t think anyone seeing this statue would reasonably think, “I am not welcome here.” Unlike other statues that carry boom boxes and move and demand money and raise their hideous featherless wings to strike at those good citizens who would land on them, these statues are peaceful and quiet. They are just CRYING OUT to be perched on, either by humans, like myself, or sparrows, whom I spite as good-for-nothings.
It is, to me, as Trump says (not tweets—I, a human, would not understand a tweet), a very, very important statue. I am a human person, very fine, and I am not here because of racism. I just want to protect that statue, at all costs.
Yes, I am a hardworking American who struggles all day and then goes home to vomit food into my children’s mouths, and I am sick to see what we are doing to this absolutely nonpolarizing landmark.
Please don’t photograph me—not because I am ashamed to be here (because I am NOT) or because, if there is a flash, I will fly up into the sky in great alarm (I will not do that EITHER, definitely). I just do not like photos—AAAAAH OH GOD FLAP FLAP FLAP FLAP GET AWAY GET AWAY.
Okay, you got me—I am a pigeon. I am not sure what these people are doing.
August 17, 2017
Coda
YOU MAY THINK THAT YOU are at the end of this book, but I assure you, you are not. This is not the end, but the beginning. If the book appears to be running out of words, that just shows your own lack of imagination, and I am very sorry for you. This is a signal that your mind is faulty, and you ought to go back to the beginning and read very carefully from there until you reach this point again and see how mistaken you were. You are not at the end yet. This book has no end. Ignore the evidence of your eyes and ears, if they are attempting to tell you otherwise. Trust only to my voice.
I have saved the most beautiful words for the end. They are extremely numerous and extremely beautiful, but only the pure of mind may read them.
Here they are:
If you cannot read them, that is because your mind is not yet pure enough. Clear your mind and try again. Forget a little algebra. Forget anything you know about carbon sequestration, certainly. Absolutely forget the Constitution. You should have forgotten it long ago. Keep trying for those words. You will be sure to see them, and they will be absolutely perfect.
Do not read any other books that would tell you that anything in here was not, strictly speaking, correct. Those books have their own agendas. Keep the door of your mind firmly shut against them. If you allow the door to open even a crack, monsters will get in. Or light, or something worse. It is much better to stay here, where it is safe, where you will see how right I was to warn you.
Keep looking!
They are here and they are beautiful. When you see them, you will clap.
We are not monsters, you and I.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
EVERY DAY I AM FLABBERGASTED and delighted that I get to work at the Washington Post. Enormous thanks and the most effusive of acknowledgments to Fred Hiatt—without whom, nothing!—for all your kindness and encouragement since my intern days, and for making this book possible, both in the direct causal sense and in the proximate causal sense. Thank you also to all the wonderful folks who have edited me along the way—especially Ruth, Molly, and Drew—for turning things that were unintelligible ALL CAPS into things that were legible and even publishable. And a big thank you also to Richard Aldacushion at the Post Writers’ Group.
Massive thanks to my indefatigable, luminous agent Anna. And violent appreciation to my editor Tom and the team at Norton who have shepherded this to publication.
Thank you to everyone who puts up with me on a regular basis: Steve, my parents, my grandmother and extended family, JGolds, the Food Brigade, the Strombergs, and the cast and creative team of the Terror. This is for you!
And Madeleine, always.
ALSO BY ALEXANDRA PETRI
A Field Guide to Awkward Silences
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