Vendetta for V

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V for Vendetta, The Guy Fawkes likeness, and Anonymous all celebrate a man who by all historical accounts and modern definitions is known as a religious terrorist. That’s not really what I’m here to talk about, but it’ll come up.

In V for Vendetta, we’re obviously meant to side with and even admire V, though he too represents political extremism, vigilante justice (read: a total disregard for due process), mob mentality, and torture as a valid means of political radicalization. In fact, V hardly identifies as a leader; the catalyst for his vigilantism is a personal vendetta (duh) with the administration responsible for his trauma and disfigurement.

The film forces us to assess V’s methods through the lens of heroism, seeing as his adversary is a truly unlikeable network of authoritarians, oppressors, and opportunists with a fetish for supremacy and sadism. We follow V on his journey to administering what he believes to be the ultimate punishment: the destruction of Parliament. He offers a principled justification for terrorism: freedom from tyranny is worth the price of death and destruction. After all, what’s to like about this shitty-ass place? You have government overreach, secret police, surveillance, media fear-mongering, censorship, corruption, religious hypocrisy, global pandemic…

Pandemic? Wait. Oh no…

Oh. Oh no.

So, what is “freedom” then? How do you obtain freedom? How do you hold onto it? We know the answer according to V’s narrative. Freedom is anarchy. Freedom is incompatible with authority. Freedom is freedom from government, freedom from oppressors, freedom from your own perceived shortcomings, freedom from public complacency…

Until V showed up, it seemed as though nobody cared about making any meaningful change to their oppressive situation. The general citizenry of this dystopian regime was funneled through the relatable workaday character of Evey  — an average woman who is all at once dissatisfied, ignorant, complacent…and totally powerless. It was our hero, V who showed her the path to revolution. It was V who rescued her from the shackles of her mundane life. It was V who radicalized her — groomed her. She knew what freedom was all along, but she needed someone to show her the way to take it back. She needed a guide. Someone with physical might. Someone with determination. Someone with a plan and a focused message. Someone with the charisma to organize and assemble. In short, someone with perceived authority. Someone who saved her life and then decidedly beat her into submission (figuratively and literally, I mean let’s face it).

At the same time that V encourages unadulterated freedom from authority, he IS authority. Remember, his rage is rooted in personal trauma. Let’s get down to brass tacks here: he rallies others to his cause in the interest of revenge — which he frames as an anti-fascist revolution. V is a bit of a demagogue, no?

So, is V’s revolution a convenient excuse for him to get back at those who traumatized him? Or is V’s revenge the perfect catalyst that sparks an authentic, self-motivated uprising from an oppressed majority?

It doesn’t really matter, does it? He’s a leader. He’s the face of change. The masks are a token of support for an authority figure that these people have accepted as their messiah. They idolize him — they fight for him and they don’t even know who he is. He claims that what he represents is not a person but an idea. He’s not wrong, but he’s not being completely honest either. Ideas don’t exist in a vacuum. Nobody picks an idea up off the ground and decides to roll with it. Ideas exist in people. Ideas exist — they are conceived and disseminated— as a result of morals, principles, lived experiences, identities, conflicts…

V is a recruiter. V is a leader. V has values and experiences that shape his beliefs. V runs counter to his own ideas. V is authority.

V is “the correct” authority.

V is a person who cultivates an idea.

Ideas are hard to kill. Spoken by the right voice, they’re hard to ignore. Cloaked in the right rhetoric, they’re hard to argue. Easy to adopt. Contagious. Pestilent.

Ideas are bulletproof, and that really could be a problem.

The Bird You Cannot Change

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Some of you may already know this. I work part-time as a mother bird now. I got the job about a week ago, although I wasn’t given the choice. I suppose one could say I was assigned to the job. Appointed, even. It’s a little weird because the job is illegal in the state of Alabama. I probably shouldn’t even be writing about all this, but if anybody reading this honestly feels the need to turn me in for respecting life and attempting to do so as legally as possible while still technically breaking the law, then they’ll be too late anyway because tomorrow the birds will no longer be in my care. Come at me.

It all started when a chipper little brown bird chose to build a nest and lay her four tiny eggs on my doorstep. I don’t mean in a tree in my front yard or in my shrub beds. I mean she literally built her nest on the wreath that was hanging on my front door. The first bird hatched on or around April 23rd and the last one hatched about a week later. Three little birds to make Bob Marley proud and one more to grow on. Fresh out of the nest, they looked like miserable fleshy insects. Baby birds, much like newborn humans, are positively hideous but in an adorable way that you can’t help but croon over. Their eyes are dark bulbous tumors that grow awkwardly on the sides of their tiny faces. They’re wrinkled and veiny. Their heads are too heavy for their wormy necks. They writhe around the nest like something that should have died weeks ago. Damn, they’re cute.

Momma bird was a good, loving bird. She kept the nest always neat and tidy. I barely got to see a bird hatch before she showed up to clean up the shells. She was always there at night to tuck them in and keep them warm. Best of all, she never dive-bombed me or tried to peck my eyes out when I would pay the little hatchlings a visit. I had faith in momma bird. She sat in a tree and called at me until I eventually learned what her particular call sounded like. A bit of light research and few Youtube videos of various bird calls would eventually reveal that momma bird was a common house finch. I thought she would always be there for them. Hell, even poppa bird stuck around for a while, which is unusual in the animal kingdom. I was witnessing the miracle of a loving family fit for a Disney movie. Then, tragedy struck.

May 5th (Cinco de Mayo, yo) was a cold and rainy day unfit for the season. It had been raining all evening. The air was chilly. I didn’t bother the birds all morning because the last thing I wanted was to spook momma bird away from the nest on a day like this. I was always diligent about making sure they were left alone when they needed to stay warm. Around 3:00 pm, the rain stopped and I opened the door to receive a package. There were no hungry cheep cheep cheeps coming from the nest, which was unusual as the birds had all developed noisy chirps and could be heard from my bedroom by then. I peeked in on the nest and found four wet, struggling little birds. One of them, the biggest one, was entirely too still. I had never touched them before, so I thought long and hard about what I would do next. I looked over at the tree. Momma bird never called. Apprehensively, I stuck a finger into the nest and stroked their heads. The oldest was dead. Rigor mortis had already set in. He was long gone and there was nothing I could do to help. The other three were icy cold and struggling to take breaths. It took me about thirty seconds to shut the door and say “she’ll be back soon, I shouldn’t intervene” before I realized a bird as tidy as the bird I knew would never leave a dead baby in the nest for so long. Momma bird wasn’t coming back.

It’s time for a pop quiz! What would you do in my situation?

A) Nature is brutal. Leave them to die in peace.

B) Spring into action and try to save the remaining birds with what little time and few resources you have available.

C) Call an animal rehabilitation center and hope that they’ll be there in time.

If you know me at all, you know very well that I went with option B. Those birds were fighters. They were still alive with a dead brother in the nest, wet, and frozen. They deserved a better chance. I don’t even want to talk about option A. Option A is for idle bystanders who can sleep at night knowing they could have done something to help and didn’t. I admire that quality, but I don’t have it. Why didn’t I go with option C? Well, it seems like a sensible option if you have any faith in the promptness of animal rescue services. It’s not their fault they’re underfunded and understaffed. I don’t blame them at all. But I’ve called Madison Animal Control more times than I can remember. Not only are they not prompt when you need them, but half the time the phone will go unanswered. This was not the time to be a law-abiding citizen. The law sucks.

I plucked the nest from the wreath, which was a surprisingly laborious task seeing as momma bird was an expert weaver and had done everything short of cement it to the door. I carefully removed each live, floundering little chick from the nest, but left the dead baby inside. That nest would be his grave. The rest went into a fleece lined shoebox under which I had finagled a space-heater. It was not easy and I hadn’t even the most basic supplies to make this rescue possible, but I was determined. Maybe I’m a little batshit crazy, but you can’t say I’m not resourceful or resolute. I watched them curl up in a desperate attempt to get warm. They were pathetic, scrawny little things and severely dehydrated. I googled about 400 different things about caring for infant birds, all of which insisted the first step was “Don’t do it, it’s illegal.” Eventually, I found some genuinely helpful forums frequented by licensed breeders and was able to come to a conclusion. Pedialyte and Gatorade are both perfectly safe to administer to hatchlings in an emergency. So I warmed up a couple of ounces of blue Gatorade, filled an eyedropper, and dripped some into each bird’s wrinkled beak. Drop. By. Painstaking. Drop. It took forever, but soon the birds were beginning to actively lap at the drops of Gatorade. It was a goddamn miracle. They began to move and chirp again. Whatever I was doing, it was actually working. What now!?

I made for the nearest PetSmart in a terrible hurry. I hadn’t showered and my clothes were unfit for being seen in public. I was stressed and desperate. Is this what motherhood is like? Inside PetSmart, I perused the bird aisle, hoping it had all the answers. I wondered if it would be wise to ask for help, seeing as I was already midway through committing a rather ridiculous crime. I found a large jar of what looked like protein smoothie powder but was labeled “baby bird food formula.” Bingo. I read the label. In bright red letters, I was greeted with a most disheartening message. [DO NOT FEED TO WILD BIRDS.] Well, shit. I looked at the associate. I looked at all the bird seed packages labeled “For Finches and Canaries.” How bad can this formula be if the bird seed packages are perfectly safe for caged birds that would otherwise be wild? I took the leap and asked her if this formula was fit for finches. Affirmative. I asked her if all I need to do is mix it with water. Also affirmative. That was all the information I needed. Wild or not, a bird with some form of nutritional sustenance is better than a bird starving to death. I bought the formula and a syringe and headed home in hopes that the chicks were still alive. They were.

Over the next several days, I fed those birds every three hours religiously. I made sure their shoebox was warm and toasty. I cleaned their poop and gave them Q-tip baths when their faces got dirty. I even went out and bought a dedicated carrying box and a heating pad as an upgrade from their living conditions. They began to sprout feathers and wings. Overall, their condition was improving. I was doing a pretty good job. I could tell them apart now, and even gave them silly little names. I went with Atticus, Scout, and Boo Radley. They’re finches, you see. You understand the reference. (I know Boo Radley is not officially a Finch, but that’s the name that stuck. For some reason, Jem didn’t occur to me.) These birds were my pride and joy. Then, more tragedy struck.

I lost one. Atticus. The oldest of the three remaining. How fitting for the character. Did I curse him with a bad name? Did I set him up for failure? He died so quickly and so randomly. It’s absurd. I was just feeding him one day. He was a brawny bird. Eager and motivated. He was already beginning to fledge. His wings were coming in strong. I don’t know how it happened. He thrashed about for several seconds, keeled over, and died. Just like that. He fell limp. His eyes closed. For the rest of the day, I felt as if the loss of one bird represented my utter failure in everything. Incidentally, it was my graduation day. I should have felt proud, but I felt downtrodden. I should have been celebrating, but I wasn’t. I wept all day. Like a big, blubbering idiot. An idiot who cared. A lot.

I decided to pour all my energy into saving the little ones. I called every animal rehabilitation center in north Alabama, hoping to give them a chance at a normal life. They were full. They didn’t take birds. They didn’t take songbirds, only raptor species. Failed attempt, after failed attempt I began to think I would raise these birds to adulthood. What would I do with a week-long beach trip coming up? Would I take them with me? Would I have to feed them in the sun and sand, every two hours? Would I even be able to enjoy my trip? It didn’t matter to me. This was my responsibility now. I made that choice days ago. Then it hit me. We’re driving across the entire state of Alabama. Surely there must be a wildlife center somewhere between Huntsville and Orange Beach with room enough for two barely-fledged finches. I made a list and began making phone calls once again. Sure enough and to my utter relief, Oak Mountain State Park called me back. They would take the babies and raise them. They would be happy there. It’s a state park. The land is protected. They’re located far from the city, where the birds could live and thrive just as nature intended. Without missing a beat, I told them I would be there on Saturday.

So here I am today. Still caring for the same little birds that appeared on my doorstep, singing sweet songs of melodies pure and true. Their wings have come in beautifully. They flap instinctively when they get excited. Soon, they’ll want to fly. It’s Friday, and tomorrow I’ll be packing up all my things and leaving them with the people who were made to do this. I don’t want to give them up anymore. I’ve grown attached, but it would be even more selfish of me to keep them. They’re wild. As wild as the warning on the baby bird food formula. If my goal when I rescued them was to give them the opportunity to live their lives, then keeping them in a cage would be hypocrisy. It’s time for the birds to be birds.

The caged bird sings   
with a fearful trill   
of things unknown   
but longed for still   
and his tune is heard   
on the distant hill   
for the caged bird   
sings of freedom.
— Maya Angelou

Eat Your Science (at Ovenbird)

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Last night I had the pleasure of attending (for the second time) Alton Brown’s road tour, Eat Your Science. I had already seen the show in Huntsville, but I didn’t mind getting to see the same show again in Birmingham this time. Different city, different audience, different experience. That’s the beauty of a live show!

Before the show, though, we experienced something almost as exciting as the show itself. We had the great honor of dining at the same Birmingham restaurant that Alton Brown himself deemed the best food in the city. He had visited the place for lunch the very same day, in fact. It came to me as a rather last-minute decision. The plan was to have dinner in Birmingham before the show, but there are a few cardinal rules I follow when dining in other cities. 1) I prefer not to eat at a chain. If I can get it at home, why bother eating it away from home? 2) I choose a restaurant that most of the locals (or somebody of culinary prestige) have chosen either as the flagship restaurant of their city or the one with the most consistently high-rated food. Those two don’t always coincide, I find. I was closing in on the last hour or so before we would be leaving for Birmingham when Alton Brown’s Facebook page lit up with pictures of delicious food. Tiny plates of food, but they appeared delicious nonetheless. Ovenbird. What an interesting–if slightly morbid–name for a restaurant, I thought to myself. Let’s eat there! So we ate there.

The food was excellent! As the restaurant promised, everything was served as if it was an appetizer at a gourmet restaurant. That is, it was all on “small plates for sharing” which is just a salesman’s term for “order lots of food.” I chose the “Mussels and Clams” and the “Leg of Lamb.” Don’t be deceived, it’s not as big as it sounds. Terryn ordered the “Beef Shoulder Complex” and the “Suckling Pig” (featured photo). Again, not as big as it sounds. With these names, you would think we were having dinner at Medieval Times. I assure you, it was nothing like Medieval Times the jousting restaurant nor the period of time between the 5th and 15th centuries. For dessert, we split the Seven Layer Chocolate Cake. I think that may have been my favorite dish. It was a perfect combination of chocolate and peanut butter, but it was still light and fluffy. Not too rich, not too chocolatey. I would definitely order that again, and I don’t even really like chocolate cakes. The dishes were small, but incredibly flavorful. I think the most shameless thing I did was ask for more bread so I could sop up the delicious mussel and clam broth, totally Greek style. Despite my reservations, I was pleasantly surprised. I left the restaurant pretty satisfied! Then again, I’m used to eating snack quantities as meals, so I have a pretty tiny appetite as a result. I’m a cheap date. Scale your appetite accordingly. In fact, scale it closer to my alcohol tolerance.

So, what about the show? That was the whole point of driving an hour and a half to Birmingham, after all. The show was great, but more than that it reminded me of how much I miss Good Eats (rumor has it that it’s coming back, but I’ll believe it when I see the next Tool album finally drop). What I love about Alton Brown the most is that he, among others, is partially responsible for paving the road between science and the arts. The culinary arts are so remarkable because in essence, they’re a science. They’re as science as science can be, actually. The best chefs aren’t just the chefs that have a nose for good aromatic complements or an eye for proper sauce viscosity. The best chefs are the chefs that fully understand why something is prepared the way the recipe book (or your instructor, your grandma, Emeril, what have you) says it should be prepared. What’s really going on in the pressure cooker while it makes that relentless hissing noise? What happens beneath the moist towel that makes your bread dough go from a lumpy mass to a perfectly smooth doughy balloon? (If you’re as fanatic about Good Eats as I am, then you know it’s obviously the work of several flatulent sock puppets.) Alton Brown is, dare I say, the only Food Network persona who aimed to answer–rather than obscure–these seemingly irrelevant questions of science. Naysayers often insist that precise measurements (by weight, damn it) and by-the-timer cooking is offensive to the warm, whimsical imprecision that went into grandma’s home cooking. Grandma didn’t need a digital scale and neither do I! Right? Well. My grandma also stuck her finger in 120°F milk to “measure” the temperature before adding the yeast cultures because there were no digital probe thermometers in rural Greece during World War II. (In case you’re curious: If she could count to eight, the milk was cool enough.) That doesn’t mean I’m going to stick my finger in every pot of yogurt starter and hope my pain tolerance is the same every time. It’s imprecise, impractical, unsanitary…and it kind of hurts, ya know? Sometimes, technological advancement, and precision, is a good thing. Embrace it! It’s science! That’s what Good Eats aims to teach us. (Namely that yeast cultures will die if the milk is just a few degrees too hot and you absolutely should measure the temperature with a digital thermometer if you want the same result every time, but I digress.) Good Eats is entertaining, educational, and nostalgic. It’s no surprise that AB has been granted the official title of “The Bill Nye of Food.”

By the way, Bill Nye has a new show on Netflix and Alton Brown was on it for all of one minute. What the actual fuck? They could have co-hosted the damn thing.

More information on the Eat Your Science Tour and Ovenbird.

 

 

The Disreputable Chronicle of My Graduate Life

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That’s what I hope it will be, anyway. I’ve decided to start this blog at this particular juncture in my life because, in short, I couldn’t think of a better time to finally do it. For a long time, I have deliberated on owning my very own blog. A place where I would record the moments of sudden lucidity that only the written prose can do justice. A tiny slice of the Internet that represents me. My keyboard identity. That thing I’m supposed to do on my Macbook while I sip on my Tall Double Skinny Vanilla Latte (because they don’t do Skinny Caramel anymore, but they can do an actual unicorn Frappuccino). I never got around to starting one because every time I thought about it, I always returned to the same stupid questions. Why now? Who will even read it?

I guess I always thought that if I’m going to start something, it can’t just be at random. It needs to represent not only the start of my blog but the start of a new chapter. This time, written (typed?). I hate vapid motivational buzz phrases like “new chapter,” but I can’t deny that it fits the situation. As a newly minted English major, it makes for an excellent pun. Actually, it’s a lot less annoying when I think of it as a pun.

So, why now? I guess graduating from college is a pretty good excuse for a “new chapter,” if I may be so bold. I’m starting graduate school at UAH in the fall. I accepted a job as a Graduate Teaching Assistant. I’m beginning the process of applying for Ph.D. programs (again, but more on that some other time). I’m taking the whole summer off from all manner of work and school to transition. If this isn’t a good excuse to start a blog, then I’m obviously too wishy-washy be in the business of starting one. Besides, who gives a shit if anyone reads it? It’s a blog. It’s basically an Internet diary without all the heart doodles and Harry Potter fanfiction.

So—here it is, gentle reader. Go nuts.