Serval and Sheep (Chapter 5)
Don't expect much from a pigeon.
When I was born, my parents didn't know what to name me. They ended up picking the name Brian because it sounded nice. But for the first five minutes of my life, I wasn't Brian. I was a nameless animal, naked and crying, overwhelmed by a world I didn't understand.
I wasn't Brian, I wasn't a pigeon, I wasn't alive.
But when my birth certificate got stamped and filed, was that no longer true. Suddenly, I'm a male rock dove born in St. Patrick's Hospital on November 15th. Suddenly I'm Brian.
The world didn't expect much from me to begin with. I learned that there are many rock doves in the world, and our intelligence, athleticism, creativity and appearance are mediocre at best. I learned our average lifespan is 60 years, and average income about 35,000$. I learned we tend to choose jobs that require little academic background or exceptional abilities.
This may surprise a lion or a deer, but I was fine with this. Mom always told me that pigeons are like batteries in a flashlight. The bulb is the one that steals the show, but it can only shine because of batteries, tucked away unseen within the flashlight. They may be cheap and replaceable, but they're vital. I was prepared to be a battery for this society.
In elementary school, I was dazzlingly mediocre. I didn't stand out to the point where it was impressive. I don't even think my teacher ever learned my name. But I was okay with this. I didn't have to be noticed or appreciated, as long as I did what was expected of me.
And then Mom died.
She was 46. "That's not too young for a pigeon" is what they told me at the time. The funeral was quiet. When I looked up at her family and friends, their faces had a sullenness that didn't seem quite right to me at the time. They didn't sob or hug each other, they didn't linger close to the casket, nor did they stay longer than they had to. I realized that look on their faces was not of sorrow, but of resignation.
They loved my mother. But this was all a pigeon deserved. Dwelling on it any longer would be foolish. Her job as a battery had been completed with dignity.
I cried alone in bed that night. As I did, I wondered had she been born as a different animal, if it would've been okay to weep and wail and howl at the funeral. I wondered if my funeral would be the same. I wondered why pigeons didn't deserve tears.
It was then that I heard him. The voice of the animal who was born into this world without a name. Who I was before I was Brian. It was livid.
"Mom deserved more than that!" it screeched. "We deserve more than that!" I watched it hiss and writhe through the whole night. I joined it in its agony, in its resentment of this world that already decided how much I would be mourned for.
When the first rays of sunlight hit my eyes, I made a decision. I decided I wouldn't die a battery as my mother did. I wanted to be a lightbulb.
If I could find at least one thing I was exceptional in, that's all I needed. Middle school was a blur of clubs, after-school activities and part-time jobs. I was desperate to find something, anything, to cling onto. Anything that would click.
Dad remarried, and I was blessed with a little stepbrother and stepsister. But that also meant I needed to work more to help with the bills. Eventually, all of the free trials for after-school clubs ran out. So I stopped. I had become a battery again.
One day during seventh grade, after math class, I was told to stay behind by Mr. Hayes, the crusty old iguana teacher. He sat me down, clutching my previous tests in his hands.
"Now, normally, I wouldn't be talking to a student like you about your performance," he muttered in his deep, gravely voice, stroking the barbs under his chin. "It's not like your grades are terrible. But call it a hunch of an old lizard whose been teaching way too long for way too little salary, but when I look at your work, I feel like you've got more going on in your head than bread crumbs."
The eyes of an iguana are cold and condescending, so I didn't know whether that was a reprimand or an encouragement. He pointed a claw at the tests. " I know you got more in you than this. You've got the gears of a mathematician running in your brain. Next time, I want to see what happens when you give 100% instead of 50. Prove me right, Brian."
Mr Hayes was the first teacher who ever praised me or even remembered my name. At that moment, for the first time in 14 years, I felt like a lightbulb.
I poured myself into studying math. I felt like I was risking my heart by daring to be this dedicated at anything. I became captain of the math club, and won several competitions both in and out of school. While all of my other grades remained more or less the same, I went from a C to an A+ in math from one trimester to the next.
Mr. Hayes shook my hand the day we got our report cards, his cracked lips stretched into a grin. "I've never seen this kind of improvement in all my years of teaching. Did you hit your head on the side of the road or was my hunch that spot on?" He coughed out a grating wheezy laughter. From then on, for the first time in my life, I became a teacher's pet.
His face was usually hardened into a stony look as he greeted his students. But when I walked through the door, he'd always crack a smile just for me. He would wish me nice weekends on Friday and ask me how they were on Monday. He would wave at me whenever we passed by in hallways. He would pat my back whenever he handed my tests back and say "That's Brian for you!" He would hand me a sour candy on my birthday and ask everyone to sing for me.
During the last year of middle school, Mr. Hayes asked if I would be applying to Noah's Arc. My family couldn't afford a quarter of the tuition, so I hadn't even considered it.
"Apply now." He rasped. "They give scholarship for kids exceptionally good in specific subjects. I know kids with half your brains who got in." He handed me an envelope, and grinned slyly. "There's my letter of recommendation. They're gonna ask for one, so I thought I'd just give it to you now."
I thanked him, knowing there was nothing else I could give but my thanks. I promised myself that if one day had more to offer, I would give it to him.
I was admitted into Noah's Arc Academy with a full scholarship. Dad cried when I told him. It's the only time I've ever seen him cry. He didn't even cry when Mom died. That night, we bought the fancy brand of millet and had a party, just the five of us. We talked and laughed and sang like we were big shots. I only wished Mom were there.
And now I'm the student council treasurer, second term strong. I visit my family every weekend, and every weekend we have a big party that I pay for. We don't even need a reason anymore.
Brian is a rock dove. Brian is a lot of things. But, it turns out, after all this time, I'm still that tiny little animal that was born without a name.