pigeon

Did you hear about the Monbacks?

When tonight’s pigeon came up, I went so far as to create a subfolder in my pigeons folder for “pass” — meaning I was going to break my pattern of writing up the next randomized-by-random-name pigeon without question, taking them as they come and seeing what happens. This one is so fucking stupid my heart sank when I saw it and I just wasn’t going to do it. Then I sighed, deleted that subfolder, and said what the fuck, what would happen if I just did it anyway. Why? I don’t know. But here goes. This one might be really short, because it’s, like I said, so fucking stupid.

One weird thing about the internet is how you can look something up after not having thought about it in years, and find out it’s actually a thing that exists outside of your own foggy memory world. Such is the case with the Monbacks.

It turns out, if you ask the internet who or what the Monbacks are, you may find that they are (or were) a band that plays (or played) “uptempo pop with a twist of Southern soul.”

It’s kind of weird how that article explicitly mentions “come on back” as the meaning of “monback,” given (as a little more internet searching will reveal) the slang term’s clear history of racist usage.

But it all makes sense now.

When I was a kid, some of my friend’s parents, especially the dads, were obnoxiously, stupidly, vocally racist. I remember being present when one of them told a pointless, stupid racist joke about the Monbacks. They always cracked themselves up, these self-satisfied idiots. They really thought they were funny as hell, and not only that, they obviously assumed any present (white) company must think so too. Fucking morons. Humor built on the smug assurance of your own untouchability isn’t funny, it’s — it’s you’re fucking stupid, that’s what it is. I can’t tell you how many times, as a dorky kid, I stood there and awkwardly didn’t laugh while these fucking assclowns took it for granted that I was one of them.

When I got a little older, I’m a little bit proud to say there were times when I spoke up and made it clear I wasn’t — not necessarily with my friends’ dads anymore, but with other people. Some of those times are other pigeons.

Probably one of the biggest disillusionments of my adult life has been realizing that those gross motherfuckers never really went away. I allowed myself to be lulled into a narrative that said we “as a society” were growing and progressing past all that rancid bullshit. Obviously we haven’t. Kind of like with the Nazis. They were very obviously the badguys, remember? WWII was over and we — not the Nazis — won. Remember that from school? And yet here we are, surrounded by these reanimated walking sacks of shit that are willing today to give the Nazis or whatever you want to call their modern day equivalent a pass, as long as they get whatever the fuck they think it is they’re going to get in exchange for the horrors that are being freshly invited into our world.

Usually I finish writing up my pigeon for the day feeling rejuvenated somehow — washed, renewed, even a little at peace. Not tonight.

Tonight I just feel dirty, tired, and angry.

It’s not the pigeon’s fault. Don’t fry the messenger, yeah? Thanks, pigeon. I know there’s a reason you’ve carried this little stone all these years over all these miles, and dropped it in my teacup tonight. I don’t know what the reason is. I don’t even really know if there is a reason. But here we are.

And then the obvious occurs to me, yet again — over and over again, but somehow it always surprises me to remember: Pigeons carry messages. Pigeons carry wisdom. Pigeons carry coded signals.

Decode the signal. Reply to the message. Whatever wisdom you accidentally acquire, send it back out, release it. Let it fly.

You. Yes, you. Yes, I’m talking to plain old, little old ordinary you, said the pigeon, again and again until it could fly no more.