Red Winged Blackbirds Are Assholes
I’m taking a stroll. It’s early summer, early in the day, and a mist hangs over a man-made lake as I walk on a path around it. The air is sweet from the tulips that shouldn’t be blooming this late in the season, but with all the tragedies coming out of climate change, who am I to complain about flowery air? The sky is a robin’s egg, still with no clouds and no sign of any disturbance in sight. I hold the hand of a Spotted Joe-Pye Weed, stroking the leaf as I continue on my way. I’m at peace, which is few and far between these days after moving to a large city. Walking helps me center my mind. I can focus on my feet and how they touch the ground, and my relationship with the ground, and whether—.
“KAAAAAAAAHHHHH!”
I freeze in my tracks. Surely, this bird isn’t talking to me. Surely, this bird doesn’t know who it's directing its “kahs”. If I were the CEO of BP, or P Diddy, or had just littered, I’d understand, but out of nowhere feels pointed and vindictive. The bird is invisible, hidden in the elm foliage like the coward it is. I assume it was a warning cry, but I don’t speak their filthy language, so how would I know? I carry on, putting my hands in a “don’t shoot” position. Surely the bird will know this means I want no trouble. However, this is not just a silly barn swallow or common waterfowl. This is a Red-winged Blackbird, the Karen of the bird world.
Look, I’m super mature, so I turn the other cheek and continue on my walk because a fully grown human has no business fighting with a bird. I can’t, however, speak to the maturity of other species. Suddenly, a small black football spiraled directly at the back of my head with the precision of Tom Brady fifteen years ago. I run, as you do, feeling like Tippi Hedren, gracefully being attacked when in reality I stumble over myself at a single peck. Alfred Hitchcock really did know what was scary. Or maybe both he and the birds hate women.
When it comes to protecting yourself from nature, you have to make sure no one’s around. It’s not a good look punching a bird in the face, but in tough times, you have to do what you have to do. Nature is inherently brutal. We forget this in our cushy lives filled with air-conditioned houses, hot water at our fingertips, and anything and everything made of plastic on Temu. In reality, the cute little creatures of Disney cartoons are living in Mad Max, minus the post-apocalyptic monster trucks. As predator and prey, it is fully in my right to protect myself from an angry Red Winged Blackbird parent as it is to shield myself from when my mom talks about my weight.
Ornithologists blame such assholery on the breeding season. Some praise them for their parental instincts, but being an overprotective parent isn’t anything special. So, calm down. My mom brutally attacks everyone who tries to bring me down, including myself. She keeps her nest clean and tidy, and lets you know when you’re not wanted. Better yet, she doesn’t vomit in my mouth unless I really wanted it. Which I don’t because I’m not a feather demon.
Baby Red-winged Blackbirds must be delicious to every animal considering the aggression of their parents. You won’t see me kamikaze bombing enemies for little ones, because I’m a selfish, lonely 25-year-old with no chicks of my own. I’m sure my mom would have a different argument. However, there comes a point when attacks seem more personal than natural. Birds aren’t aliens or some government psy-op. They’re even worse: helicopter parents. Red-winged Blackbirds take one time of the year, a time that should be sacred to them and their families, but instead make it an excuse to victim-blame. How am I the asshole for punching a bird when it tried to attack me first?
Birds in general are post-Cretaceous beasts with hollow eyes, hollow bones, flying around, shitting on everyone, and we’re all okay with that? You look into the eyes of a bird, you’re straight into the unfeeling depths of time. Black soulless eyes that are only driven by primordial desires and revenge. They have one hole to rule them all: cloaca. Darker than their souls, this wretched trait connects them to sharks, turtles, and platypuses. I can understand how creationists don’t believe in evolution because birds are demonic.
Forget attacking humans, the USDA estimates that Red-winged Blackbirds cost $150 million in damages to crops such as corn, sunflowers, and rice. These tiny beasts of animosity are not just an enemy to me or you, but to the whole environment. No species is safe. They lash out at crows and ravens, birds double and triple their size, with the ego of a hawk. Freud would have a field day.
Ecologists will bend over backwards trying to convince you that polygyny in birds is actually super interesting. Wow, one bird takes care of different nests! The polycule that lives down the road from me has a child, and they have never attacked me. They’ll say that vomiting in their children’s mouths is out of love for their babies’ underdeveloped bellies. My mom made me chicken noodle soup for an upset stomach, which, presumably, tastes better than bird vomit, but there’s only one way to find out.
Despite the brutality of nature, you can’t blame parental or primordial instincts of Red-winged Blackbirds. We’re all just animals. They peck, dive, and attack out of spite and love. I take my anger out on the wrong people. I have no spatial awareness and have punched many people in the face trying to dance at parties. My mom’s soup was nurturing, and her overprotectiveness was annoying at the time, but I now appreciate it. So, when I go on my serene nature walks, I have to remember that chaos is just on the other side of peace, and with great will power, I’ll respect the Red-Winged Blackbird in all its natural psychotic devotion.