First Person is a daily personal piece submitted by readers. Have a story to tell? See our guidelines at tgam.ca/essayguide.
Illustration by Alex Deadman-Wylie
Several years ago, I worked as a nurse in rural Ethiopia. As an avid bird lover whose roots lie in Alberta, I was captivated by the plethora of new-to-me avian life. From the mourning doves that had taken up residence in the compound where I lived, to the vulture-like beasts that flew in lazy circles above, I was in my element. Frequenting the hospital compound where I worked were these little yellow birds that built complex grass, conical structures as nests in the trees. Fascinated, I remember asking one of my colleagues if he knew what they were called (I now know they are called weaver birds). He shrugged and responded, “bird,” surprised at my curiosity. He clearly did not share my interest in these beautiful, flighted creatures and their feats of structural engineering.
Despite the myriad bird tattoos that adorn my upper body, anyone who knows me is well aware of my predilection toward birds. Along with several backyard feeders, hanging outside my kitchen is a clear bird feeder that attaches to the window by suction cups, allowing me to watch my avian friends as they dine. Here I routinely host a bevy of birds, along with the occasional squirrel, in a sort of live-action television to entertain me as I wash the dishes. The birds seem to know me by sight and will cheekily peck at the feeder while side-eyeing me when it needs refilling. Who says animals cannot communicate with humans?
I also spend a great deal of time in the mountains, my eyes to the sky, always on the lookout for a flash of wings or the familiar chirp or call of the avifauna. I even keep a set of binoculars in my car for any impromptu observation stops whilst driving, a routine occurrence, much to my teenager’s annoyance. Yet, despite this ornithophilia, I can name very few birds. Aside from the weaver bird (the name of which I looked up while writing this), I can confidently name only a handful of birds. Sure, I know a chickadee from a sparrow, or a flicker from a magpie, but ask me the difference between a hawk and a falcon? I would likely say, “size and colouring,” but would add a question mark to my response. While this difference might be obvious to some, does not knowing much beyond this make me any less of a birdwatcher? Does this diminish my ornithophilia?
Some might ask why I don’t simply look up bird names. It isn’t that I don’t care about being able to identify them. After all, we do live in the age of information and there certainly is no shortage of bird-related resources on the internet or elsewhere. Some might argue that knowing the names of the different species allows birders to speak in a common language. This then generates conversations about birds, which can even lead to discussions about protection. Further, the American Ornithological Society recently decided to change all the English bird names named after people, citing the switch to naming birds after the qualities that make each species unique is a more inclusive and accessible approach. And practical, if you ask me.
However, in doing so, this also indicates that the naming of the different species can be an issue of social justice. Given that John James Audubon himself, a pioneer who set out to paint and describe all birds in North America, was just as famous for his dedication to white supremacy and slavery and dalliances with academic misconduct, I cannot say I disagree with this decision. For some, to speak these names, such as Wilson’s Warbler or Cooper’s Hawk is a nod to the past that serves as a tangible reminder that the way things have been done is not always the best course of action.
However, I would go further in the question of naming by asking whether identifying a hawk versus a falcon even matters. Is the beauty not in the bird itself, the way its wings slice through the air with the grace of a dandelion gone to seed, touched by a gust of wind? Or how you can hear the flap of their wings as they part the air when they fly above you? Or how, when hunting, it’s as if time has stood still for a moment as the great winged huntress marks her prey from above, leaving gravity as but a concept in a book? Does naming them not distract from their inherent grace and elegance as they soar above us mere mortals? I would argue the only word that matters here is awe.
Ashley Holloway lives in Calgary.