Friends And Relatives

Day 143: "Oh, I kinda thought from your name that you were Native American." If I had a nickel for every time I've heard that, I might not be rich, but I could at least afford a fancier spinning wheel and a dozen bags of good wool. "No, not Native American," I would reply. "I'm just a crow." Usually, the discussion closed there, but if any further curiosity was aroused, I'd say, "And my mother was a frog." My dad was a Luna moth, but no one has ever ventured that far into my genealogy. In fact, my dad was the first person to acknowledge me as a crow. Hoeing up hills for corn in the spring, he'd deposit four kernels in each: one for the worm, one for the crow ("That's yours"), one to die and one to grow. And I always got my allotment at harvest time. My hair was raven-black in those days, long and swept back into two "wings," and my beady eyes were almost as dark, and if that wasn't enough to give a clue, my peers kept me at arm's length or further, as if they found me socially unacceptable. I was curious about everything, and yet wary of new experiences until I had sized them up from all angles. There were other commonalities with Corvus brachyrhynchos as well, enough that I began to identify with the iconic black-feathered friends who seemed to share my personality (but oddly, not with ravens). Eventually, "Crow" became a nickname, and today there is hardly a person who calls me by my given name, or even knows it. No, I'm not Native American. I'm just a crow. And that's the size of it.