Correspondence

May 3^rd, 1997

“Why don't they make the city bird the pigeon?” she asked her father. Her tone was honest, that of a child trying to make sense of the world.

“They wouldn't do that” her father replied.

“But there are so many of them. Shouldn't the thing with the most get to choose?” she continued.

“Well, they wouldn't choose a pigeon. A pigeon is a dirty bird,” her father answered, his patience waning. Though he would never admit it, he thought to himself, why is Mary in such an talkative mood today?

“Who is they? And why is a pigeon dirty?” she probed.

“It just is. They're not clean, they don't look pretty, there's nothing beautiful about them. They're a dirty bird,” he repeated.

“But why should being clean matter if there are so many of them? Shouldn't they have a chance also?” she petitioned. She looked dissatisfied at the answers provided, as if to say, This isn't the world I signed up for. Still, one could see her knowledge building, acknowledging dissonance with what she thought should be and what was. These were the stories she would recall 11 years later.