We’re City Birds Now

On April 19th, 1900, in the heart of busy Pittsburgh, a pair of pigeons watched as only one of their three eggs hatched. Two weeks later, the baby was sprouting feathers everywhere, and that’s when his parents decided it was time to visit the fountain. See, they were certain that a bath would turn their only baby’s feathers from sludge colored to midnight black.

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Pigeons don’t migrate. They just don’t feel that urge to get out of town every winter like the swallows and other songbirds do. If you ask me, the lack of chirping is music to my ears! For the birds that do brave the cold, I know there are fewer feathers to fight for crumbs of carbs and whatever else the city slickers decide to drop.

When that sludge colored baby was a squab, the yinzers started building up the rookery. When he was a juvenile, I watched him fly past it for the first time and heard people nearby calling it a skyscraper. Naturally, I knew he and his fellow city pigeons had never seen anything like it. The glass roof proved to be the perfect nesting spot for them, and soon the rookery became a neighborhood of twigs and pebbles and droppings. I saw two eggs fall from its height one day. That was sad. Eggs aren’t supposed to shatter until it’s time to gasp for air.

I noticed that some of the pigeons chose not to settle down on or near the rookery, probably for fear of starvation in such a bustling area. Plus, I think, for some of them, the see-through floor must have been unnerving. When the sludge baby grew up, he decided to roost on a smaller building near where the rivers come together into one. It’s more peaceful there, though I suppose that depends on what your definition of peace is.

My favorite, I call him Mushroom, has brown feathers, and sometimes children point at him in the streets and remind him that he’s different, “look, a brown pigeon!” One smokey morning that all changed.

Mushroom had scored a small crust of bread from the restaurant near his nest and was pecking away. When the little girl walking by gaped at him and put forth the reminder of his dirt colored feathers, Mushroom didn’t look up.

“Actually, tesoro, that’s a dove,” the woman beside her with dark, curly hair corrected. That got Mushroom’s attention. Wow. His eyes followed the woman and child down the sidewalk, for no one had ever called him a dove before. No, the feathers that curse the city streets could not possibly be beautiful. I wondered what other fresh perspectives this woman could have on pigeons– on life. Mushroom flapped into the air to follow, abandoning what was left of his breakfast.

They walked for a few blocks and then stopped at one of the city’s only payphones. Mushroom perked up at the sharp clinks of coins going into the machine. The woman grabbed the phone and put it to her ear, waiting a moment and then saying, “Giuseppina.” Her daughter, waiting patient but restless by her side, locked eyes with the pigeon, who pecked around nonchalantly and found an old french fry. “Yes, I was hoping to be connected to the international line,” Giuseppina continued, pronouncing international in a way I’d never heard it spoken before. Her accent was mesmerizing, but I knew better than anyone that different was dangerous in Pittsburgh. She frowned and then hung up the phone. I guessed she didn’t have enough change for the distance charge.

“Let’s go, Patrizia, chop chop,” Giuseppina grabbed her daughter’s hand and they continued down the sidewalk.

“What about nonno?” Patrizia’s question was soaked in sadness.

“Another day, bambino.”

These two were on a mission, though the city wasn’t forgiving of the foreigners, and they took many wrong turns trying to get to their next destination. Something hanging from Giuseppina’s neck kept stealing Mushroom’s attention, it was shiny gold and slightly curved like the peppers he’d seen people eat outside of the sandwich shops he typically hung around.

“Mamma, can we eat?” Patrizia broke his transfixion on the jewelry.

“We will soon tesoro, I just need to grab a few more applications, okay?” Giuseppina offered, gazing down at Patrizia with a look of regret over her prioritizing. So they continued on and Mushroom flew along, landing on a random ledge each time the pair stepped into a new building. They hit Georgie’s Cafe and Hubert Sandwiches, and then Liberty Tavern and a newly built bar at the very end. Giuseppina’s hands were full of papers to fill out, and she attempted to organize them while she and Patrizia made their way to cheap sustenance. As they approached a lone food cart near where they’d all started the day that morning, the scent of hotdogs filled the air. I knew Mushroom’s stomach would be grumbling at that. Giuseppina’s eyebrows furrowed as she tried to decipher what “corndog” and “hotdog” meant.

“Erm, just a sausage,” she paused, pointing through the glass, “please.” She went to hand the man in the cart some cash.

“No bun?” The man questioned, not meeting her eyes, fishing for a piece of meat.

“Oh yes, the bread too, yes,” Giuseppina answered.

She led Patrizia over to a bench nearby and took a generous bite before handing the hotdog to her daughter. As she ate, Giuseppina shuffled through her applications, eyebrows furrowed. Mushroom stood on top of a trashcan nearby, I knew he was trying to act like he wasn’t hoping for some of the bun. Suddenly, a man appeared from around the corner and stopped right in front of the bench. Giuseppina looked up at him, instinctually reaching for Patrizia at the same time.

“Get out of this country you fucking guineas!” He yelled with such hate, and spit at Giuseppina’s feet as she pulled her daughter closer. Mushroom flapped into the air at the commotion. The man continued down the street, hailing a nearby carriage. Patrizia let out a tiny wail.

“I know, bambino,” Giuseppina said, “it will be okay.” She pushed her face into Patrizia’s long hair and held her tightly. Eventually mother and daughter and the street meat guy were alone again. The hotdog they’d bought had been abandoned to the ground when Giuseppina had clutched Patrizia. Mushroom stared hard–I swear, he wanted to go right for it–but turned his eyes back toward Giuseppina when she spoke again.

“Listen to me, Patrizia, that is not even the worst of what we will face,” she said slowly, referring to the angry man. “We’re the odd ones out here in America, but you can’t let that get you down.” She gently grabbed Patrizia’s chin so they would be looking at each other, and continued, “Promise me you won’t let your spirits be broken by the odioso.” There was a deep desperation in her voice as she clutched her daughter’s hands in her own.

“Yes, mamma,” Patrizia answered with a small smile.

“Let’s go home.”

But I knew they weren’t really going home, and that made me kind of sad. I wondered why Giuseppina had taken such a big risk coming to Pittsburgh with her daughter, and then I realized that it must’ve been for the American Dream. That was something a lot of yinzers talked about in this maturing city. The two walked off and turned the corner, and while Mushroom looked like he wanted to go along after them, he had to follow his own instincts, just like Giuseppina was doing. The hotdog was probably still warm when Mushroom’s beak broke its skin.