I Am A Bird: Davon’s Essay
I remember the first piece of ‘important’ writing I was asked to produce: it was the first grade, and our task was to write a composition beginning with the words, “I am...”.
The young chap seated beside me at the time, Davon (I think that was his name), wrote the title you see above, “I Am A Bird”.
Our teacher, Miss Dover, was none too pleased upon reading said essay and gave him a sound thrashing.
“I am a bird?! I am a bird, nuh! Fly! Fly, make me see!”
As the strap found his back in rapid, vexed flurries, Davon writhed in pain, his arms flailing around him, either to fly as directed or as a shield from the lashes of the irate teacher.
Years later I find myself being able to laugh at the memory of the shrieking teacher and the class of frightened six-year-olds; though I dare say that sort of rigour, and ‘discipline’ was too excessive. Even then I knew that.
We were in constant fear that one wrong move and we’d be hit, or screamed at, which no doubt added to my dislike for her, Miss Samms and Miss Richards - my grades 3 and 4 teachers respectively. I found them to be unjustly strict women of dour personalities, who seemed to love dispensing corporal punishment at the drop of a hat. In the case of Miss Dover - a woman at the end of her career - I can now say she had no business teaching impressionable children. And that’s my unchanging opinion.
I remember another time when we were asked to make Christmas cards, and as I deemed the piece of cheap art paper too small, I wrote “Merry Xmas”. Instead of commending a 6-year old for his obvious range of knowledge, she berated me for - as she said - “taking Christ out of Christmas”.
I would find out many years later that the Christmas card reaction was as a result of my father having gone to her a few weeks prior to say he didn’t think I was being challenged enough, to which he was met dismissively with, “Every parent says that about their child.”
But my father (himself a teacher at the time, albeit untrained) was right - as my grades eventually proved. I skipped a grade at the end of the year.
There are certain times, almost like clockwork, when I think about Davon, his essay and Miss Dover; usually towards the end of the year and whenever I hear Nelly Furtado’s seminal single, “I’m Like A Bird”. I think about what it must be like to be like birds, perceived yet elusive, earthly yet heavenly.
He may have been on to something that young Davon. At that tender age he’d already understood the freedom that birds enjoyed, and - like them - wanted to be free.
It’s been rainy and grey these past few days in Paris. Temperatures have dropped, I’m disillusioned with my job, and as we embark on another year I’ve found myself asking questions and thinking how great it would be to be outdoors, in another city, home - anywhere except this damp - sometimes inhospitable - city. It would be possible if only I could fly - like birds.
Birds.
Beautiful and majestic;
earthly yet celestial.
Free.
Oh if only I had wings.
For 2023, I wish for each and every one the possibility to soar like birds.
Happy New Year!
Ryo
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