Grounded Flights
Photo by Shannon Livingston-Harris.
By Shannon Livingston-Harris
To consider that after the death of the body the spirit perishes is like imagining that a bird in a cage will be destroyed if the cage is broken, though the bird has nothing to fear from the destruction of the cage. Our body is like the cage, and the spirit is like the bird. We see that without the cage this bird flies in the world of sleep; therefore, if the cage becomes broken, the bird will continue and exist. Its feelings will be even more powerful, its perceptions greater, and its happiness increased.
–‘Abdu’l-Bahá, Some Answered Questions
I inadvertently started a bird cemetery at a middle school near the Las Vegas Strip. Not in recent days, mind you—it happened while I taught there in 2021, specifically in the spring of hybrid learning and the ensuing fall of in-person learning. If I only buried one bird, then I wouldn’t call the site a cemetery. Digging resting places for two birds, however, naturally zoned this location as a budding bird graveyard.
The site is along a peripheral section in the school garden. This was the most sensible place in which to honorably deposit the feathered friends, at least in my teacher’s mind. Trash cans—and there were a few in the area—were a convenient option that I sidestepped. I also wasn’t comfortable with leaving the deceased birds near the school’s large grassy field where I found them. Part of that area belongs to a park, and the lifeless creatures were up against dog poop, trash, and passersby.
I walked on a sidewalk next to the school during lunch that spring. I often strolled at this time so that my lungs could bottle the fresh air before returning to a stifling building. The school wasn’t stifling because of failed air conditioning (that would happen in the fall). In my classroom, I had between zero and seven students (those who opted to participate in hybrid learning). Most students remained 100% online, and I was required to teach both sets of students at the same time. It was an unwelcome imbalance in a languishing year for public education.
It was during my walk that I spotted the first bird lying at the bottom of a chain-linked fence. It was partially concealed by a white bag. While this setup might sound nefarious, locals know that wind-blown rubbish is aggressively common. That’s because it shows up whenever it likes and is blind to the nonverbal cues about its unwanted presence. I had no time to consider an action plan for the dead pigeon; I needed to quickly walk back to the building and teach another class. I decided to tend to the situation after school for something ought to be done, I thought.
I buried a bird before in my home state of Minnesota. In fact, I couldn’t prevent my car wheels from running over the dainty, winged animal that suddenly appeared on the highway on-ramp. Remorse tapped my chest for ending this fragile life, and I felt obligated to honor it. I made a U-turn and returned to the on-ramp, which was free from vehicles. I pulled over and grabbed a small towel from the backseat of my car. Stepping outside of my car, I jogged to the flattened bird and encased it in the towel.
I brought the bird to our house and buried it in our backyard. I offered sage and tobacco (two sacred medicines gifted to Indigenous peoples by the Creator) as a way to dignify the life that briefly intersected with mine. I hoped the bird’s spirit was flying again and closed my eyes to imagine that it was.
After school in Sin City, I returned to the chain-linked fence. Using the white plastic bag that partially concealed the dead bird, I held onto the creature and pried it from the fence. Once freed, the bird stayed in its body bag as I walked it over to the school garden. Crouching, I held the shrouded body in one hand and dug into the mulch with the other until I was satisfied with the hole before me. Unapologetically, I placed the bird inside this garden tomb and sealed it with wood chips. I don’t remember the short prayer I said.
Walking away, I quietly wished the teacher in charge of the school garden, Grace, wouldn’t stumble across the bird body that was now hidden within the mulch. If, while shifting the ground with a garden spade, she unearthed the bird, would she yelp? Would she think a student buried the bird for the unsuspecting gardener and was somewhere menacingly laughing? Unsure, I allowed these questions to dissolve in the radiance of an optimistic perspective: either the bird would remain undisturbed or be resealed with wood chips if sunlight touched its body once more.
The school year ended in May. That fall I returned to teach and stood outside the exterior door of my classroom before each class period. Actually, all the teachers did this. The school resumed in-person learning as COVID-19 continued to bounce from person to person in Las Vegas. The school administration thought that it was safer, health-wise, to have students walk outside of the building and enter classes through the rooms’ exit doors.
Greeting students as they entered my classroom from the outside door, I frequently observed a hummingbird zipping about a palo verde tree that was rooted 40 feet from where I stood. Before closing the door to start class, I often paused to cherish the transient moments of witnessing a messenger from the natural world. It assuaged many of my coarse feelings connected to the chaotic personality of an unprecedented time.
On the day I spotted the second bird body, my hummingbird messenger was nowhere to be seen. Covered in autumnal clouds, the afternoon sky released a light rain shower on the staff and students. As the water landed on the school roof and cascaded downward, it bore a rusty color.
Walking into my classroom, a student sarcastically quipped, “This is like gross Lake Mead water.” Even though I smiled at the joke, I felt a tint of sadness as I wondered how many students held experiences of unsullied adventures in the outdoors.
Through the falling water droplets, I noticed a staff member was inspecting something on the other side of the tiny parking lot in front of our classrooms’ exit doors. Wandering to his next class, a student glanced in my colleague’s direction and yelled, “It’s a dead rat!”
It wasn’t a dead rat. Peering closer, I saw that it was a permanently-grounded bird, and Stephanie, a math teacher, was attempting to move it. Grasping a ruler in each hand, she used her measuring tools like large chopsticks to pick up the dead bird. Eventually, she was successful. The bird’s body was lifted from the asphalt and transferred to the unpaved base of the palo verde tree.
I wasn’t planning on burying the bird—initially. Rather, I wanted to see if Stephanie’s engagement with the inert animal was enough to safeguard it from curious students. Although the rain shower stopped an hour before school let out, the sun stayed behind a wall of clouds as I walked to the palo verde tree. For the first time, I noticed how students had carved into the tree’s green bark. I saw the name GEORGE FLOYD and the words hell and Die.
I looked down at the bird. Its body rested in a crooked position with its head unnaturally pulled toward its back. Somber, I saw what was immediately next to the bird: a small supermarket box, swarmed by ants, with bare chicken bones sticking out. This was not an instance of wind-blown rubbish, which accompanied the first bird. On the contrary, someone had chomped on the cooked chicken and simply left its bones to the will of the world. It was a revolting meeting of death and indifference.
Using disposable gloves, I picked up the second dead pigeon and walked around the building to the school garden. Joined by a conspicuous bleakness, I buried the creature exactly as I had buried the first. Pulling off the gloves, I was ready to leave, but I stopped as I perceived something inside of me. An inner pumping mechanism, unexpectedly activated, was pulling an intuition from a deep well, which surfaced to my consciousness. I stared into the distant mountains and knew: there will be more dead birds to bury this year.
That is, if I stayed to teach.
Photo by Shannon Livingston-Harris.
Shannon Livingston-Harris is a content writer for a California-based tech company and a freelance writer. Born and raised in Minnesota, she was first inspired to visit the southwest in 2017 after having a dream of walking through moonlit, rocky formations of the desert. She enjoys writing short, memoir-style pieces about her experiences in teaching and beyond. Shannon lives in Las Vegas with her husband Cory.
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