The Bird is the Word

The day after the election I discovered two pleasures: screaming in the car and flipping the bird. On that particular day they were inseparable, a nearly Pavlovian combination. Every car I saw on the road with a certain kind of bumper sticker received a keening wail that would make Robert Plant envious, followed by a one-digit salute. Highly satisfying on a day when I thought the only thing that could mollify me was an ACME anvil dropped on my head.

Running out of places to put my rage, I’ve channeled it into my finger. Since the many colorful, truly heinous members of American Crime Syndicate propagate our screens all day every day, it’s become a kind of reflex: Click. Flip-flip-flipflipflip! Oh I didn’t see you down there young gutless Rubio, you of the vertebrae made of flan-FLIP.

I probably haven’t given the finger so liberally since I was a kid who learned it from her older brother. And even then, it was less about making a statement and more about trying desperately to look cool in front of him and fit in with his friends who definitely did not want a dumb girl hanging around anyway. As I got older I unlocked and sharpened my sacred gifts of sarcasm and humor. Giving the finger seemed amateurish, beneath me in some way, like a chef who chooses to cook with SPAM when the Wagyu is right there on the counter. Why give the finger when I had more creative and funny ways to call you a grade-A dick? I was not invited to many parties.

Respect the bird or suffer aerial justice. @SheilaMoeschenPhotography

Where did this universal symbol of disdain even come from? Where everything else does: them crafty, smahhht Greeks. We can thank ancient Greeks for gifting us one of the dumbest, childish, yet oddly very effective insult gestures. In between inventing geometry and salad, the Greeks had some time to figure out a wonderfully passive aggressive way to tell someone to jump up their own butt.

PLATO: Hey, Homer, when are you going to write something good for a change?

HOMER: (puts down reed, extends arm, raises middle finger)

ARISTOTLE: Burn!

Because, you see, when that finger is extended the ring and index finger are folded in such a way to form the suggestion of, which is to say, a configuration that upon closer inspection resembles, um, what could be called male genitalia. I don’t entirely get it. There are plenty of things more offensive than a penis. Ketchup on hotdogs, for example. Crocs. Inflatable lawn decorations. Astronaut Katy Perry. But not for those cheeky old Greeks. They tagged this body part as “it” in the symbolism department; let it be both a sign of contempt and down for booty. Ancient times were often very confusing, but never lonely.

Fast forward a few thousand years to when this gesture actually, really, really mattered: when it appeared in America. Even better: the story involves a professional sports team from Boston. It really doesn’t get more Massachusetts cliched than this, folks!

The year was 1886. A great year for the Coca-Cola company that had released its new drink to thirsty, soon-to-be-cocaine-addicted, Americans and an even better year for the scrappy baseball team, the Boston Beaneaters. In addition to a crushingly intimidating name, the Beaneaters had pitcher Charles “Old Hoss” Radbourn in their ranks. Radbourn was no slouch on the mound. Two years before signing onto the Beaneaters he was with the Providence “Grays,” leading them to a World Series victory. Radbourn was a record setting and shattering player–he won 310 games in the span of 11 seasons in the major leagues. He was also a super sized jerk.

Historical accounts describe him as vain, prone to fits of jealousy, angry, bitter, and a heavy drinker. It’s safe to say that Charlie “Old Hoss” Radbourn did not suffer fools gladly or soberly.

On opening day in 1886 the Boston Beaneaters faced off against the New York Giants (Boo! I am required by Massachusetts law to write that). Someone thought it would be a nice idea to have the two teams pose together for a photograph. That same someone was probably recently lobotomized and therefore had no understanding of the concept of sports rivalries. In his book about Radbourn titled Fifty-Nine in ‘84, writer Edward Achorn describes what happened next:

Charlie dutifully rested his right hand on the shoulder of the teammate sitting in front of him. But at the last minute, wearing a straight face…he lifted his left hand above his teammate’s shoulder, firmly thrust out his middle finger, and held it rock steady so that it would remain sharp and clear in the captured image…

In the words of Aristotle: BURN!

Radbourn is third row, far left looking super happy to be there! (Image by F.L. Howe via Library of Congress)

Let’s have a closer look, shall we? Well played, Old Hoss. HONORARY MASSHOLE FOR LIFFFEEEE!

It would be the finger that launched a thousand bar fights (at least).

The bird is raw defiance in one digit.

There’s a house at the end of our street that I walk past a few times a week. In the months leading up to the election there was a small TRUMP sign on the lawn. I also noticed a red flag embossed with the United States Marine iconography, Semper Fi printed along the bottom. It all tracked, demographically speaking. A terrible November slid into a demoralizing January. Most houses took down their signs, stowed away their banners. Not this guy. That little lawn sign planted itself obstinately, refusing to entirely disappear even in the snow. But then in March it was gone. I felt relieved. Finally. Your guy won, you’re happy; you brew your coffee with liberal tears and eat “wokeism” for breakfast and all that other inane garbage, we get it. No one likes a gloater.

And then about a week later I walked past and saw two things: a giant red and gold Trump flag hanging outside the second story window and a decal fixed to the window on the first floor depicting the president facing a happy crowd with the text “Daddy’s home!” scrawled across the bottom. Blarf. No thank you forever infinity times infinity squared.

I stood in front of the house. A marine lives here, I thought. He could probably kill me with a kitchen sponge. The anger mixed with impotence I felt for months trailed me to this spot. It was a raw day and my fists were already balled up against the cold. I opened one. I extended a finger.

Childish, probably.

Dicey, maybe.

Gratifying, definitely.

And I think Old Hoss would agree.

PS! A few weeks ago I saw a badge like this one on my friend Kevin Alexander’s ‘Stack On Repeat Records. I made this one using Canva, but the wonderful artist Beth Spencer (Introvert Drawing Club) has made a bunch of “human made” badges available for download. You can check them out and download for free HERE. X!