the kids all gathered around me; soccer ball dropped, crayons down, shovels in the sandbox. they cheered and crowded and jockeyed for a better position, even though i held the butterfly aloft and they could all see anyway. their dreams were pinned on that butterfly. that butterfly meant they had succeeded, grown something, watched as nature began a live part of their classroom.
alive. you see?
so there we were, waiting for the butterfly to get brave, and suddenly, there she went---
"goodbye, goodbye, good luck, goodbye, butter--!!"
out of the corner of my eye, i see a flash of black, and in that second, i think, "that's the black phoebe. we just identified that bird yesterday, and found its nest under the eaves today. that's the black--"
oh shit.
the bird knocks into the butterfly, one hit, and the butterfly shakes around for a half a second, and then the entire class, all those little hearts and eyes and souls watch as that bird eats the butterfly in one gulp.
i folded over in laughter, my hands over my face, and listened the the reactions of the kids around me. the twins started wailing, then another joined in, then another. a few seconds later we have seven children in sobbing positions, while three other shouted their bravado, "good! i didn't like butterflies anyway!!"--thereby causing more cries of dismay and despair.
my colleagues later told me they heard the cries from the other side of the school. a couple was touring and walked through the yard just as this was happening, and i had to reassure them that it wasn't everyday that the entire kindergarten class broke out in hysterics.
am i describing this accurately enough? can you see the dramatic arc of the experience? can you feel the ecstasy and agony? in seven swift seconds these children were slapped on the side of the head with the glorious violence of nature.
i loved it.
it was hilarious.
but it also made me think a bit. the girls in the class called for the destruction of the black phoebe and all it's kin, a boy wished for the extinction of the entire bird population. there were calls for justice in the name of all butterflies. you get the picture.
in light of my recent craving to change myself again, to make myself over; to cut my fucking hair off, i realized that there is some kind of connection here.
go with me for a minute.
there is a kind of glamour to butterflies, those little darlings. they start one way and end another. they have color and beauty. they have flash-in-the-pan lives. and we are told to adore them. more specifically, the little girls in my class are taught to love, love, love them: they wear them in sparkly designs on their shirts, they show up with b-fly tattoos. they draw pictures of them for each other. butterflies are easy, glossy, and require little thought. they are the people magazine of the nature world.
these black phoebes, however, ain't got nothin' on the delicate ones. they are black and white; sure, they've got a little crest on their head and their tail bobs in a really funky way, but other than that (and the fact that they make their nests out of mud and attach them to walls), they're just birds. plain old birds. to the point: one plain old bird that ate a pretty little butterfly.
i'm still feeling out this connective tissue here, so forgive me for rambling. the thing is, i am that black phoebe, and i am that butterfly, too. most of my life i've leaned one way or another: sometimes requiring the pretty, sometimes pushing myself away from that nest, but always, always, there is the understanding in my heart that my appearance means something.
that the way i look determines the way i am loved.
and so this longing to do away with my hair, to cut it short again, to feel the wind on my neck and stretch out my bones to the sun--this is what it feels like to be that butterfly on my palm, and also what it feels like to be that bird swooping in with all the power in its body. there is a clash of ideals, a splattering of remains, another illusion shattered.
it ain't pretty. but its the way it is. nature in real time.
sometimes, there is nothing more beautiful than the truth.
(disclaimer: i know a famous lepidopterist and she is a kick-ass scientist and i have the utmost respect for her work. and for butterflies. just to be clear.)
