Unearthing
Common Ground

ZOOM

Screen

Sometime in 2020

Upon delivering a lecture

to a group of virtual lovers

of all things native, wild and free,

the audience,

by their faithfully paid memberships

in certain societies attended to learn —
from me,
the invited guest keynoter —
I was asked at the end of the talk
(emoji applauses duly noted) —
“How will you get your neighbors
to rid their yards of noxious exotic grass?
To eliminate the Bermuda, the centipede
the fescue?
To plant the native things that belong?
Broomsedges, or Paspalums.
You know — bluestems, Indian grass?
Can you convince them to go native?”
My answer, past a barely suppressed eye roll
and the heavy sigh that I only half-hoped
they could not hear past mute
or catch in the glare of the too bright
ring lamp bouncing off my
receding hairline
was in my head,
“I really don’t know how much
my neighbors will care
about native warm season grasses
or wildflowers locally raised
and pollinator safe,
when their health is threatened by viral strain
or heightened likelihood of being fatally police
detained
or worrying over the job that’s gone —
I cannot in good faith ask them
to nuke with poison
the green they now have,
to ask people who might have hungry stomachs;
emptying wallets
maybe emptying lungs —
to destroy the little they have
to satisfy some vision
of perfect piedmont prairie
that once was cherished lawn.”
All of this swirled round in pre-verbal
thought response.
Then — I opened my mouth
“No,” I replied, firmly out loud.
“I don’t think I will — I haven’t tried.”
The virtual crowd sat quiet
I glimpsed a head shake
or maybe it was just an “s-m-h” vibe I got.
No yellow hands clapping showed up
in the little people-filled boxes.
My lack of eco-conversion conviction,
of restoration awareness,
was not so appreciated.

Just a few days later, another chance.
This time about the birds (not plants)
and what is, and is not
properly wild.
Then too,
The host wanted to know
what might my thoughts be on
why skin color matters sometimes,
more than Empidonax flycatcher identity.
Having given my Black birder opinion on
offenses taken personally
over the prosecution and profiling
of dark-skinned humans
(and black feathered things — like calling
double-crested cormorants “nigger geese”
or blaming Negroes for quail disappearing),
It was time for Q and A.
Hands went up.
I took them as they came;
gave easy funny quips about being stuck
on butcher birds (i.e. loggerhead shrikes);
offered advice on where best to see
Swainson’s warblers.
Then a chat question rolled up —
“But what can I do about the house sparrows?
they are pushing my poor bluebirds out!”
The questioner seemed desperate in all caps.
Apoplectic at having the Eurasian weaver finches
anywhere around.
In remote solitude I smiled wryly —
swallowed hard, gritted my teeth through
The screen, then replied —
“Not so sure house sparrows
are your biggest problem — ma’am.
Sure, they may usurp (yes I used the word)
a nest or two
of what some would deem ‘more desirable kinds’”—
(then inwardly possessed mid-sentence,
began a thought process — a conversation
wholly within about the Nazi scientists love affair with what belonged and what didn’t. Wasn’t there some idea of master types of this and that floating about?
How did that scheme of exclusion and homogeneity
turn out?
— but
I kept that train of thought
on its own internal track with only me on board —
and hitched for a second on revealing a musing of racial purity politics and its proximity to nativist ecology but instead, I said aloud —
“the cats roaming your neighborhood
are the worse players in this birds
declining by billions tragedy
Keep them inside and your bluebirds will
be better off.
Don’t blame beings
who never asked to be here,
for their presence
but found a way to thrive
in spite of fickle minds
who’d just as soon destroy
them once their service is done.”
I proceeded to mention starlings,
the beauty of murmurations viewed from afar,
the hate of the same birds up close,
tears of joy to words of hate —
the way we accept some for who they are
then deny others life because of the same —
depending on how close to us they come
or how far away they stay.
The room went quiet.
From the Zoom squares
where these questions grew
through a thicket of oblivion and blind spots
A touch screen shattering silence.
Kind of like the one
from the bird club guy,
a seventy-five or eighty-year-old white man
who advised behind a half smile
that I “get over” racism
because he resolved the Holocaust
by practicing Tai Chi.
Six million plus exterminated —
but martial arts in a park made it all better
for him.
My constant reminding,
that things weren’t so good for too many,
birds and Black folks alike, was too much
he declared
(with the same shitty smile)
“Get it together and you’ll feel better”
was his advice.
“Be more positive! It’s not all that bad.”
He waved.
I did not wave back

I looked into his square —
Wondered if George Floyd ever thought
in his last moments
that downward facing dog would save his life.
I did what that Black man
face full of asphalt
was denied by a knee on his neck,
and breathed deep as I could
with a long slow blink,
to keep anger and tears back –
“Namaste Motherfucker,”
was what wanted to pour out,
but all I could do in that moment
was think of how this idiot
was the problem with so much.
“Next question, please”
dribbled from between my lips.
The Tai chi birder, the Holocaust happy birder
sat confident in his prescription,
as I struck second-thoughts from my repertoire.
Made speaking first mind,
requisite condition.