I’ve lived in the same neighborhood my entire life. I used to feel as though I was a mocking bird stuck in his fledgling stage, trapped in a condensed area with overprotection. My mother used to always tell me, “Each sunrise marks the start of a new day, providing a clean slate for a new chapter to be written.” As much as I wanted to believe her, I was never able to write a new chapter. Every sunrise looked the same. I eventually started to just sleep through them. There was nothing worth waking up for, and when I would finally wake, I would be jolted awake by an alarm. I dreamed of a time that I could wake up peacefully and happily greet my neighbors at the start of my day. Eventually I decided sunrises didn’t matter. I wanted to be like a mocking bird at sunrise, so I decided to migrate. I wanted to hear a Texas mocking bird sing its part in the dawn chorus
I wanted to live where even the smallest of creatures have importance in their community. I wanted to be in a land where just existing was the criteria to fit in and be appreciated. I wish that I could live in a place where hostility and violence within my community would be a necessity for survival, not an excuse for hate. I wanted to be in a world where every bit of life had a mutual understanding of their role in their environment. A universe where beauty was subjective and not a deciding factor of finding love.
Sadly, it seems that places like that are becoming more of a dream. Even for mocking birds. Maybe they are the unlucky ones. Every tree that gets cut down for construction of houses, begins the demolition of a neighborhood. Millions of lives in the wilderness were forced to evacuate and find a new home and travel through miles upon miles of land that is no longer familiar.
I wanted to connect with nature and visit my neglected neighbors and explore the little land they have left. I decided to walk through a trail at sunset. and try to process every little detail from the remains of a vandalized work of art. It felt as though I was passing through an oasis of what was once a highly populated and welcoming society.
My migration was cut short when I was awoken by rhythmic patterns and sounds. However, it sounded unnatural. It sounded like an orchestra that was conducted by someone who had lost all sense of creativity. When I opened my eyes, I slowly turned my head like an owl questioning its wisdom. After surveying the environment, I saw visual relief fill my parents face. They knew their little fledgling was safe and didn’t wander off too far. When we got back home, I decided to take in the sunrise, and as I heard a Texas mocking bird sing its part in the dawn chorus, I felt ashamed to be its neighbor.
