Chapter Five
WHAT IS ANTING IN RELATION TO BLUE JAYS?
I’ve received yet another bird request. It’s unusual for someone to continue asking questions like these.
I wonder why they aren’t just googling the answers for themselves.
I think sometimes people ask questions simply for a bit of human interaction.
I get the impression that a lot of people are lonely and looking for connection.
I look up the definition of the word “anting” in a dictionary on my desk. I then google the word and find another definition. I read two articles about blue jays and anting, specifically.
ANTING IS BIRD BEHAVIOR THAT INVOLVES BIRDS RUBBING ANTS ON THEIR FEATHERS TO DRAIN THEM OF CHEMICALS, SUCH AS FORMIC ACID.
BLUE JAYS EXHIBIT THIS BEHAVIOR. SOME SCIENTISTS THINK THIS MIGHT HELP PREVENT PARASITES.
IT’S ALSO POSSIBLE THAT BIRDS LIKE BLUE JAYS FIND ANTS TASTE BETTER WITHOUT THE ACID AND ARE SIMPLY RUBBING OFF A BITTER TASTE.
At the bottom of my email, I add, HERE ARE SOME RECOMMENDED RESOURCES FOR ANY FUTURE QUESTIONS YOU MIGHT HAVE ABOUT BIRDS, and I list several resources for the patron.
“What the hell is going on here?” a man shouts.
We’re watching a performer named Ms. Mother Goose read Frog and Toad to a horde of toddlers.
“What the hell is this?” the man yells.
I stand up and position myself between him and the children. Mordecai and Patty both hurry to stand with me. A concerned mother accompanies us.
“This is the children’s section, sir,” I say, hoping he’s lost.
His face is red.
“Let me walk you out—” Mordecai says.
“Why the hell is a drag queen reading books to children?” the man yells.
Ms. Mother Goose isn’t a drag queen. She’s an elderly woman who wears a synthetic wig.
“Sir”—Patty points at the exit—“you need to leave now.”
The parents in the room are scooping up their babies. Ms. Mother Goose has closed her book.
“I have to leave for calling this shit out? Really? This is the place where you also let perverts watch porn, right?”
One of the toddlers is crying, upsetting the other toddlers. They progressively join in, and soon, every toddler is crying.
I feel like crying too.
“Time to leave, man,” I say. “Sir, I mean.”
“This is sick!” the man shouts, while Mordecai directs him toward the exit.
I’m on the phone with Brenda. I told her about the story-time incident.
My hands are shaking slightly. I feel rattled by the confrontation.
She says, “I’m so sorry that happened. Thank you for letting me know.”
“I’ll write up a report,” I say. It’s part of the protocol established in the “Violation” appendix of our Patron Code of Conduct Policy.
I don’t know what happens to incident reports after they’re submitted.
The policy doesn’t say. It should. If I were writing it, I’d outline what happens next.
When people are given directions to follow without understanding why, it’s hard to trust that they’re taking the right steps.
I like having a process to follow, but I don’t like following steps that make no sense or lead nowhere.
I want to ask her what will happen with my report and what our organization plans to do in response to this. If I were a manager, I’d have more say. I could influence this policy, review our processes, equip staff with training and with clearer messaging on safety. I could do a lot more.
I’m not sure if it’s appropriate for me to speak frankly with Brenda about this, or to ask her many questions, though I want to.
I take a breath. “This is the second person I’ve had to confront in this branch in a week. I’m concerned. What are we going to do about this?”
She’s quiet. Maybe I shouldn’t have asked.
She sighs. “I know. I’m concerned too. I brought the previous article about the pornography incident to the board.
So you know, in addition to that, and to these incidents you’ve shared, there have been similar incidents at our other branches, as well as an influx of targeted messages about this to the mayor’s office and other city officials.
The messages aren’t just about the pornography case, though.
They also wrote about material in our collection they want removed and voiced complaints about our programming.
In response, we’re likely going to conduct a review of our related policies. ”
I exhale. Declan and his cronies are inundating the city with their complaints. It’s taxing how much time, effort, and money is spent on these issues. Critical matters always take the back burner, like our high staffing turnover rate and our crumbling infrastructure, just to name a few.
I ask, “What material do they want removed?”
I’m sure I can guess the answer.
She takes a breath. “It’s a long list. Mostly children’s material.”
Surprise, surprise.
I say, “Right. Well, thanks for sharing that with me.”
“Of course, Darcy. And you know, I’d like to chat with you more about your thoughts on how we approach this. I really value your insight.”
My stomach churns. Brenda is who encouraged me to apply to that branch manager position. She sent me the job posting in an email with a note that said, CONSIDER APPLYING FOR THIS. I’D RECOMMEND YOU TO THE PANEL. WE’D BE LUCKY TO HAVE YOU IN THIS ROLE.
I don’t know if she sincerely wants to chat with me about how we approach this, or if she’s just trying to be nice. I’m sure her impression of me has changed after I bailed on the second interview and disappeared from my job for months.
“Thank you,” I say quietly.
I’m embarrassed I blew that interview. I probably made her look bad.
She says, “Maybe we could meet next week to discuss this. Are you available on Tuesday at 1:30 p.m.?”
I open my calendar.
“Yes, I’m free,” I say.
“Wonderful. I’ll stop by your branch, then. How are you doing, by the way?”
“Oh, we’re doing well here. There’s lots of great initiatives coming up—”
“No, I meant how are you doing. How are you feeling? How’s the return to work?”
“Oh,” I say.
I feel tension in my neck.
“I’m doing well, thank you. I’m on the mend.”
“I’m so glad to hear that. We’re happy to have you back.”
“He walked me home one night the first week we worked together,” I tell Dr. Jeong.
I have my eyes closed. We’re practicing imaginal revisiting again.
She asked me to revisit when Ben and I first started dating.
“The bus wasn’t running. We’d worked a late shift, it was midnight, and I didn’t want to pay for a cab. ”
“Tell me about the walk,” she says.
I try to picture it. It was late in the summer. Ben was wearing a blue anorak. My hair was in a ponytail.
“He said I shouldn’t walk home alone in the dark.
It was dangerous. I thought that was, I don’t know, gallant of him, I guess.
It was like a forty-minute walk. On the way, we talked about how much our job sucked.
It really was an awful job. He joked about our managers and coworkers.
He said he used to work in restaurants, and it was bad there too.
It was him talking mostly, and me responding with, like, hesitant bursts of laughter.
And he kept complimenting me. I remember feeling both embarrassed and sort of drunk off the attention.
When we got to my building, he asked if he could come up to my apartment.
I wanted to say sure, I thought it would be off-putting if I said no, but my apartment was full of boxes because I’d just moved in.
It was a tiny studio. It had room for a twin bed and a small desk.
I told Ben there wasn’t enough room to hang out up there, and he said that it was okay. ”
I pause. I remember something else, but I don’t want to say it out loud.
It grosses me out. He asked if he could have a hug before I went upstairs.
That sounds creepy in retrospect. I didn’t find it creepy at the time, though.
I do now. I thought it was a normal request when it happened, so I hugged him.
I skip that part and continue, “Then he asked if he could get my number. I gave it to him, and he texted me that night. I remember he wrote ‘I have a crush on you.’ ”
“How did that make you feel?” she asks.
“At the time? I felt like I had a crush on him too. And I did, sort of. I’d just moved there.
I didn’t really know anyone yet. I felt kind of scared, living somewhere alone for the first time.
I was nervous for school. It was nice to meet someone who liked me.
It made me feel good about myself. I wanted him to like me. ”
She says, “Okay. You can open your eyes now.”
I open my eyes.
She says, “Can you please tell me how you feel about that night now, today?”
I inhale. “Okay. Um. I think I was insecure and looking for validation. I wanted to be affirmed as a likable girl. In retrospect, Ben and I didn’t really have anything in common.
He was in a different stage of life. We didn’t have similar interests.
I think I liked that he liked me, more than anything.
And he was nice to me. I shouldn’t have been dating him when I was just starting college.
I should have been around people my age who were having the same experiences as me.
I feel kind of robbed of that, I guess. But I also feel guilty for thinking that way now, given everything.
I still appreciate Ben as a person. He was sweet.
I do think he was too old for me, and I was inexperienced and naive, but it’s not like he was trying to take advantage of me.
I guess maybe he was, a little. But I think he was just looking for someone to love. ”
She makes a humming noise that implies she hears me and understands. She says, “It sounds like you feel regret, but also compassion for Ben.”
“Yes. I regret how our relationship negatively impacted him. I wish things were different. I wish I’d met him, but we never dated, and were just friends or something.”
She looks at me. “Do you think you two would be friends if he were alive and you met him today?”