I recently defended my Master's thesis. It was on the subject of an Italian-American poet whose writing really affected me. She wrote about her sense of not belonging, either in America or in Italy, and thereby being effectively an exile in both countries.
She also wrote about the "crow on my shoulder", always whispering in her ear everything that was wrong about her: that she wasn't good enough, attractive enough, outgoing enough, charming enough: all the criticisms a person can heap upon themselves to create reasons for not going out into the world and doing what they wish they could do.
I wondered: where did crows ever get such a bad reputation? My experience with crows comes from having lived alone in rural Ontario for over five years. Crows are not pretty, but they are beautiful. They create a sense of awe in me, wherever I see them. I admire them a great deal. Crows are a necessary part of rural life - and probably urban life, too. When an animal dies, or gets killed, along the road - often as a result of getting hit by a vehicle - the decent thing a rural dweller can do is to get a shovel and move it safely off the road, so other drivers don't suddenly swerve to avoid it. It's not fun, but it's part of rural life. We don't just move it to the gravel shoulder, either, because people sometimes walk there, especially if their car breaks down. We move the animal right off the road, preferably onto a higher area of land. Then the crows come in and do their part.
Crows' beaks cannot pierce, say, a raccoon's hide, or a squirrel's, or a beaver's, so ideally a cut in the fur should be left exposed, so the crows can land on the deceased animal and eat its exposed flesh. They do this so neatly and efficiently, I marvel at how organized they are.
Out on the land, if a Canada Goose is found dead, I get a shovel and a rake and move it to a secluded area of land, far away from the lawn tractor's orbit. Now, those birds are weird. An adult Canada Goose looks pretty large, but honestly, it's all feathers and very little flesh, so you can hardly even feel its weight on your shovel. Crows don't even try to peck at their feathers, so you'll see the evidence of a Canada Goose fatality for about two years afterwards.
Now that I live in midtown Toronto, on a pretty elegant street, my contact with wildlife is limited to the dogs and squirrels I pass while walking daily on the Beltline Trail, and I miss hearing the beaver tails smacking the surface of the water in the ponds to warn other beavers that danger is approaching. I often think of the crow sitting on my poet's shoulder whispering to her that she doesn't belong. I kind of laugh. I wonder if I - a septuagenarian, going to grad school with students in their twenties and thirties - might ever listen to a crow on my shoulder telling me I don't belong. Maybe I've grown a thicker skin in all these years of being alive. All I know is that a crow's beak, sharp as it is, can't pierce a thick skin.
Which reminds me: I saw a t-shirt for sale online, and while I'm not going to buy it because the seller is located in the U.S.A., I'll take a screenshot of it for you. I'm studying the Italian Renaissance, and the Black Plague was a big feature of that particular era. My classmates would definitely appreciate this.
