Ducks

In the depths of downtown Chicago, the most exotic animal my 10-year-old eyes could spy was the monarch butterfly. In a childhood dominated by skyscrapers and brick, even the most common creatures were an adventurous discovery. I dug up earthworms and tried to count the number of segments or tell the head from the tail. I caught fireflies and kept them in washed out peanut butter jars scattered with grass and twigs. I learned that their small lives were fragile. The next summer I released them after keeping them only for a night. During school breaks, I would take the mile long trek through the open gates of Lincoln Park Zoo. I explored everything. I took in the sights of rhinos, sea lions, tigers, and cows. Somehow, they never did seem the way that I imagined. Animal Planet and picture books just made them seem more regal, more enchanting… just more wild.

Eventually, city squirrels and pigeons lost their appeal. I never left the confines of the big cities and suddenly, I realized that the wildlife started feeling like pests. I battled cockroaches and rats in NYC apartments. I shielded my food from crying seagulls along the jersey shore. I avoided open patches of grass near shopping centers flocked by geese just in case I might step on something. I turned away from the lifeless bodies of raccoons or small deer on highway shoulders. Animals no longer elicited the same curiosity. Instead, I spent hours researching baits, traps, and extermination strategies.

I was sitting in the passenger seat that mundane summer day. My boyfriend was driving us through the neighborhoods surrounding his suburban home. As we were cruising through familiar residential blocks, a crisp white body caught my eye.

I have never said the words “Stop the car” in a more sudden or serious manner in my life. My boyfriend was confused, but slowed at the intersection and looked over at me. I was fumbling with the phone in my pants pocket and silently cursed the tight fit.

“What is going on? Are you okay?”, He pulled gently on my shoulder to get my attention.

“There ARE DUCKS!” I exclaimed. I unlocked my phone and started trying to get a quick photo.

“Ducks??”

He looked over my shoulder through the passenger window. Indeed, there were several stark white ducks waddling proudly, exactly like the Aflac mascot or Donald Duck. I had always known about Mallard ducks and seen them occasionally in rivers and streams. These white beasts were another level. Their bright orange beaks against their slim feathers somehow looked comical or unreal. Their presence on a residential lawn was a stark juxtaposition against the New York city skyline backdrop.

The entire encounter lasted less than a minute from 6 feet away. The light turned green and my boyfriend pulled away from that serene moment. Though it was brief, I was excited. I felt the giddy surprise of a child who had seen horses for the first time. I had captured the proud and majestic ducks in a single quick photo. Besides me, my boyfriend was rolling his eyes and calling me cute. I was focused on my photo. I knew it wasn’t the same as stalking a leopard under the camouflage of a fake bush to get a perfect shot. Yet, in a landscape crowded with common pests, to me, this was a once in a lifetime encounter.

We drove past the same neighborhoods every other weekend for years. I never did see any white ducks again. But, I kept my eyes peeled for the other habitants of the world, coexisting with synthetic structures of a busy metro area. The ordinary ducks opened the possibility of my forgotten curiosity.