How hearts break

In front of my house, this beautiful backhoe sits (thanks, Mark), festooned with the urban languages that only graffiti artists can read. It's part of my daily landscape, here in the war zone of an inner city on the edge of a continent -- a place where those who fit in nowhere else end up, wondering who we are and why we are here, sitting above a seismic zone bent on bringing us to certain ruin.

You do have to be at least a small bit crazy to choose San Francisco as your home. I've long since figured out why I am here, but I worry about the young ones, rich with promise. Do they yet know, or will they soon enough discover what has brought them here, to one of the true ends of the earth?

Last night, in my house, something very sad happened. A special little heart got broken. It was my precious ten-year-old son Dylan's turn. Dylan is an extremely special child (and not just because he's mine). Here is his self-portrait:



(I'm sorry this came out sideways.) He is wearing his signature Russian Red Army Cossack Army hat his big sister brought back for him from St. Petersburg. With him are his beloved pigeons. Dylan has researched these birds for the past few years and discovered how intelligent they are, and how many special qualities they possess. They mate for life (unlike us), care for their young, loyally remain with their group, protect each other from danger, and live peacefully along the most violent, ignorant, unpredictable species on earth -- homo sapiens.

Dylan is a gentle soul. Unlike my other boys, he is not very athletic, though he has a great body, even at age ten, wide shoulders, muscular arms, a lean, perfectly sculptured body. He is big and he is strong. But he does not have an angry bone in his body. I have never seen him hurt anybody. He doesn't fight and he doesn't compete.

Dylan is brilliant. He reads books about many subjects, including his passion of current concern -- birds. His love of pigeons came from his infancy, when he used to chase them around the park joyously. Later, when he could talk, he said he wished he could fly like a bird.

Later still, when he could write, he studied pigeons. He fell in love with their habits, their values, and their kindness. They are very gentle creatures, much like Dylan himself.

As a parent, I always try very hard to do the right thing for each of my kids. Therefore, the other day, when the author of a new book about pigeons was interviewed by Michael Krasny on Forum, KQED's wonderful morning radio show, I heard just enough to imagine that it would appeal to Dylan. I immediately ordered the book (for him for Christmas) and emailed him a link to the podcast of the interview.

Last night, Dylan played the podcast. At first he called out all kinds of exciting facts, like how fast some pigeons can fly, to his brother and me. But then, he started calling "Oh no!" It turns out the author has documented the extreme cruelty humans impose on pigeons around the world.

They corral them, then burn them alive. They stake them on pointed sticks and watch them die by bleeding to death, like Jesus. They play hackysack with their bodies. Poor little Dylan had to ask me what "hackysack" was and I reluctantly told him. By now he was crying uncontrollably.

"Why do people treat them this way? They are harmless. They are intelligent and they help us. They have saved lots of people's lives (pigeons can spot an orange life raft in the ocean better than any other animal or technology). They help us. How can we treat them this way?"

He really cried long and hard, shuddering in my arms. I tried clumsily to comfort him. I told him about the horrible things human do, not only to animals, but also to other humans. That in Africa one tribe hacks another tribe's people to death with swords.

Then I realized I wasn't helping my sweet little son at all. I felt stupid and low. Words really cannot help, of course, when your heart has been broken. (I, of all fools, should know at least that much.) Finally, I just held him, dried his tears, and told him I love him, and that he is so special. I mumbled that too many people are ignorant, have been brought up bad, and know not what they do. I felt like the Bible speaking.

He eventually calmed down and went to sleep in my arms.

I got up and went into my room. Sleep did not come to me, but awful thoughts of anger toward my fellow man did. I felt terrible things, imagined doing exactly to those pigeon-killers what they do to the innocent birds.

In other words, I descended out of love and loyalty to the lowest level of human thought and fantasy -- to the level of just another killer.

That is why, ultimately, I sense that our species will perish, whether from global warming or some other self-inflicted insult. This is not a bad thing. Based on Dylan's research, it is my hope that we are replaced on this globe by pigeons, at least one of which will certainly carry my own son Dylan's reincarnated soul as he soars lovingly over this tortured earth. May they do better than we have.



Finally, here is how our home looks at night. You, my readers, are always welcome here, as long as you can find your way around the backhoe, the trash, and the broken hearts that lie within. But if you do not like pigeons, please keep that quiet when you next enter my house.

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