For a decade now, I still think back to the time a macaw called me Barbara. First off, I’m a dude. Secondly, I’m a pretty manly dude – at least that’s what I’ve been told. My jaw is quite square, shoulders are broad, and though I can’t grow a full beard, I’ve got a Cary Elwes chin-scruff thing going.
But the audacity of it all. Barbara? I can’t shake it, even after all these years. How could I imagine? I go on vacation to the Big Island, my wife and I visit a local zoo, and right at the entrance there’s this massive cage. It’s so big you’d think there’d be multiple birds in there. Nope. Just the one.
I notice it’s quite a privileged bird, what with the extra space and prime location. It nibbles its nuts, seeds, and bird food. It hops around on branches. Eventually, it stops and looks at my wife and I. It suddenly brings its attention to me, turns its head to the side, and in a clear tenor says, “Barbara?”
Why me, I ask myself. My wife is right there. She doesn’t look like a Barbara either, but if anything, shouldn’t the moniker have been directed at her? After all, she’s the female. And that gets me to thinking. Is it my Hawaiian shirt? Perhaps it’s all the threaded tropical flowers that give this feminine vibe. I don’t know – it’s still not a dress or muumuu. I’m wearing cargo shorts for chrissakes!
My wife and I look at each other and laugh it off. But there’s this urge to correct the bird. I know it’s just an animal and doesn’t have the cogitative abilities to understand the complexity, gender identities, and contexts for how people’s names work. Yet, I am prompted to say, “I’m not Barbara.”
The bird merely looks at me.
We linger a bit to see if it’ll call me by a more masculine name. But no. The bird continues to occasionally screech, well, like the bird that it is. Giving up, we wander the zoo where fortunately no other animals try to talk to me.
Yet, here I am today – wondering, analyzing, trying to make sense of this ridiculous refrain. Maybe its caretaker was a Barbara who wore the same shirt as me? It’s possible. I’ve also thought perhaps Barbara has a unique meaning in Hawaiian linguistics? Alas, this is not so.
I actually have a very nice aunt named Barbara and perhaps this bird has ESP. Maybe at the time we entered the zoo I was having a random memory of childhood zoo trips with Aunt Barbara and this mind-reading bird picked up on it. Who’s to say?
The bird may have the ability to read. It could be that the visitors in front of us were Californians, one wearing a Santa Barbara T-shirt, and the bird decided to practice its phonetics. Maybe Barbara Bush visited that day and the zookeepers taught it this name for the sake of a memorable greeting. Or maybe they let it watch interviews with Barbara Walters in the zoo breakroom. I know these are far-fetched. But you have to wonder.
After so many years, I’ve learned to appreciate this parrot’s bestowment of such a name. I refuse to go by Barbara, but I can look back with a mixture of perpetual fondness and downright confusion at the announcement. Perhaps there’s a little of Barbara in all of us and the bird had the uncanny intuition to make it clear to all zoo visitors that day. I suppose I can live with that.
I guess I’ll have to.
