By Christina Rosso
My father, born in the fall of 1951, has always loved the haunting, mind-bending stories found in Alfred Hitchcock’s films and Rod Serling’s The Twilight Zone. I remember spending New Years Eve and Day snuggled on the couch watching a marathon of the television sensation. Of spending sick days with Grace Kelly, Cary Grant, and Jimmy Stewart on the French Riveria or in a crowded New York apartment complex. I can’t recall the first time I saw Hitchcock’s 1963 The Birds, a loose adaptation of the 1952 Daphne Du Maurier short story with the same name, however, I remember carrying a sense of avian dread. A feeling in my bones that birds could declare war on the human faction whenever they grew tired of our antics.
Birds fly through mythology and folklore. Some are omens of death, while others have regenerative abilities. Some are half-human, half-bird, often femme-bodied, who lure men to their untimely deaths. In Egyptian mythology, Ra, a falcon-headed deity, is the Sun God. As of May 2021, there are an estimated 50 billion to 430 billion birds on Planet Earth. These avian creatures are an integral part of our ecosystem, yet how often do we pause to acknowledge their chirping or cawing presence? For me, it took a part-time job at a very famous abandoned prison.
For nine months, I worked as a historic tour guide at Eastern State Penitentiary in North Philadelphia. Some posit it to be one of the most haunted places in America, with stories of nefarious and heckling ghouls throughout the eleven-acre grounds. In my experience, the abandoned prison is haunted by a terrible history of racism and mass incarceration. Much lore surrounds Eastern State, as does superstition. One superstition of sorts is this: one employee will find all of the dead and dying birds on site (of which there are a considerable amount). When that person leaves, a new person will begin to discover the birds. In the Spring and Summer of 2016, I was the bird finder at the penitentiary.
Often baby birds would fall from their nests onto the dusty slabs of pavement. The first time I found one, I had to give a ten-minute tour of the punishment cells, an earlier form of solitary confinement that continues to plague our prison system today. When I resurfaced from the underground space, the bird had been trampled by inobservant tourists. I promised that bird I wouldn’t let that happen again. After that, each time I found a dying bird on-site, I made sure these animals died with dignity. Sometimes that meant sitting with them, shielding them from being stepped on by visitors, or taking leaves and moving them off the path to a more peaceful place.
I learned quickly that it was worse when they were still alive, their tiny lungs laboring for breath. Long red gashes quivering across their pink, featherless bodies until the wheezing stopped, silence and death ringing in my ears. That year, it seemed that dead and dying birds surrounded me. Everywhere I looked, they were splattered on the sidewalk of my South Philadelphia neighborhood or in the grass at the nearby park. I always stopped to tell them how sorry I was, and if I was able, I collected their bodies, putting them to rest.
Around this time I started drafting a short story collection about magic, identity, and power. Set in New Orleans, I took inspiration from my favorite city and my favorite stories, real and imagined, about witches and goddesses and monsters in the shadows. I shaped a character in part after the Greek Goddess Demeter and in part after myself. A woman whose purpose was to travel to the plane in-between life and death and help the recently departed find peace. I had this character find dead and dying creatures as a child—cats, alligators, and birds. I told myself even if it weren’t possible for me to become this character, perhaps I could still help the animals that sought me out find peace.
I often tell my husband that to some I must appear unhinged the way I walk around Philadelphia and now its suburbs talking to birds as though I’m Snow White. I wish them good morning. I ask how they slept. I thank them for their saccharine chirping and the pleasant joy of watching them fly from one tree to the next. I always feel a swell of gratitude when these birds come to me alive, with the possibility of flying anywhere and seeing anything. And when I find them at the end of their journey, I hope they had a wonderful life.
Since that summer at Eastern State Penitentiary, I have considered birds to be one of my familiars. In European and American folklore, familiars were believed to be supernatural entities that assisted witches with their magical practices. I choose to use this term instead of spirit animal or power animal, as I do not want to further appropriate or cause harm to Indigenous cultures and their language. For me, a familiar is any animal I feel a deep connection with. One in which I feel a mutual understanding and respect. I believe these animals have found me and chosen me. This is especially true with birds.
When we came back to tour our home a second time, my husband and I were allowed to roam the property by ourselves. Alex went through the house, registering every detail of it while I explored outside. In the front yard, a robin landed before me. At that moment, I knew this was our house. I have always been someone who gets “feelings” about a place and takes messages from the universe seriously. This was my message. A robin means new beginnings, hope, and good things to come. We submitted an offer on the house the following day.
Since moving into this home, I have worked on becoming acquainted with all of my bird friends, or avian protectors, as I like to call them. The robin returns daily, as does a crow, several catbirds and mourning doves. On the morning I cleansed our home of negative energy, I found a catbird feather on the side porch. Catbirds, as particularly vocal birds, offer lessons in communication, by asking us to both practice listening and singing our own songs. Their energy is rejuvenating, optimistic, and inspiring. Perhaps this catbird is reminding me that my voice matters and that this new home is the perfect space to manifest the projects I’ve long been putting off. I brought this feather inside and have now collected several more offerings from my various avian protectors. I plan to meditate on these creatures’ symbolism and messages.
Now that I’m settling into life at the new house, I want to continue to deepen my relationship with the birds that frequent the trees and plant life in my yard. I plan to build a birdfeeder for my familiars to offer them nourishment. I plan to decorate my altar with their feathers and to call their messages and energy before spellwork. Now that I have a yard, I plan to collect and bury any dead birds I find in the neighborhood. I plan to incorporate them into the stories I write. And I plan to talk and listen and sing alongside these incredibly delightful creatures.
In The Birds, Mrs. Bundy, an elderly ornithologist, says to our heroine, Melanie Daniels, “Birds are not aggressive creatures, Miss. They bring beauty into the world. It is mankind, rather... It is mankind, rather, who insists upon making it difficult for life to exist on this planet.” I’ve been thinking about this quote a lot lately, and how I feared birds for so long without ever really knowing them. About how humans bring suffering and destruction to the earth and its creatures. How our culture allows fear to drive us to ignorance. My eyes and ears are open, ready to learn and relearn, to accept any messages offered to me, and for that I am grateful.
Christina Rosso (she/her) is a writer and bookstore owner living outside of Philadelphia with her bearded husband and rescue pup. She is the author of CREOLE CONJURE (Maudlin House, 2021) and SHE IS A BEAST (APEP Publications, 2020). Her writing has been nominated for Best of the Net, Best Small Fictions, and the Pushcart Prize. For more information, visit http://christina-rosso.com or find her on Twitter @Rosso_Christina.
