The Paper Raven
2024 Autumn
On the perimeter of a round, glass café in Regents Park, I sat drinking bitter coffee from a hammertone Stanley thermos. The sun radiated down on my cheekbones, a reprieve from winters’ breath slowly icing up the northern hemisphere. From my paint-chipped bench I gazed at the unnaturally green grass, each blade reminiscent of Willy Wonka’s candy coated factory fantasy hills, interrupted by the pentagram shaped walking paths, weaving like concrete rivers and casting the spell of illusion upon those who walked arm-in-arm in wool overcoats; the illusion of nature in London. As I watched my breath appear and disappear in the magic of the still morning, two distinct groups of black birds sliced across the cloudless blue sky, landed on the earth, and began pacing the grounds for breakfast:
Raven: the largest bird in the crow family, with shiny black feathers
Crow: a large, black bird with a loud, unpleasant cry
(Cambridge Dictionary)
Ravens symbolize ancient wisdom, intelligence and transformation. They are messengers of prophetic wisdom, charismatically flying as emissaries between spiritual and living realms. Free-spirited ambassadors of the sky with silky, luminous feathers. Alluring and charming, even The Eagles describe the beauty of a woman’s ‘raven hair’ in their song ‘Witchy Woman’.
Crows, however, are beaded shadows who haunt telephone wires, shown in films scavenging around graveyards, smelling of carcasses and decay. They travel in chaotic herds with cultural ties to death and bad luck, squawking and screaming. These creatures are not nearly as enchanting or refined as their raven comrades. Scientifically, their differences are attributed to different shaped tail and neck feathers, but, in spirit, it’s much more than that.
Watching both groups of birds scavenge the grass, I wondered if crows carried disdain for their raven counterparts. Belonging to the same Corvid family, smiling to a raven’s face, yet secretly despising their beauty, jealous of their sense of individuality. A measly crow sees the ravens at Christmas every year, hoping they got laid off, or were plagued with some rare feather disease so that they can shine, for once. A loop of Carly Simons’ You’re So Vain on mental radio. And I don’t blame these crows for thinking with such malice, ravens are far superior.
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In middle school, my English class covered Edgar Allan Poe’s The Raven, and I put forth a papier-mâché raven creation as a salute. That year, each student was tasked with making a diorama of sorts that represented something they particularly admired from any of the literature we read in class. I loved Poe, his dark themes and echoing dialogue that I can recall over a decade later: “Hellish tattoo of the heart” says The Tell-Tale Heart’s increasingly insane narrator just before murdering a vulture-eyed old man, chopping his corpse into pieces and depositing them below fictional floorboards.
My father and I worked on this paper raven project together, gathering the necessary supplies on an unseasonably warm Spring day; chicken wire, old newspapers, black paint, a plank of discarded wood. We concocted watery glue of the perfect consistency for pasting, preparing our work station in the backyard. I used my might to bend the chicken wire into a cylinder shape to form the body of the raven, then slowly molded the neck, slimmer and slightly raised from the rest, so that it could properly survey the grounds. I horizontally attached a small cone to act as the skull, pinching the narrow end to shape its magnificent beak. My raven stood as a gothic trophy, larger in proportion to an average sized bird, not in flight, but perched on its wooden pedestal with slim wired legs supporting its feral stance.
I tore strips of the day-old newspaper, slowly submerging each piece, one by one, into the glass pool of glue, carefully pasting the scraps along the wire. Each newspaper strip was a silky feather, sealed with devotion; the sports section wrapped its legs for endurance, the arts and leisure section was tacked to its body for style, and the weekend horoscopes covered its eyes, enhancing its vision for the occult.
Sunshine turned to vapor on my forehead and down my neck as I worked. My T-shirt damp, I was wholly dedicated to this feathered beast. Hours passed until I finally felt satisfied; leaning back to observe my creation. I impatiently began waiting for the glue to dry, eager to paint my raven, to bestow its honorary black feathers.
As the sun began to wane to an orange dusk, finally, it was time. Peeling back an old, dried paint can lid, the black gloss swirled around the half empty pot. I dipped my unruly brush into its darkness, aiming to capture the creature’s murderous air. At last, gently crucified with color, the work was completed and I, a mess, glue hardened on my tiny fingers, black paint swished across my arms, was beaming.
Monday rolled its sleepy eyelids open, and I was ready for English class. Holding my bird proud, sauntering down the school's tiled hallways, my companion half my height. I arrived at the wooden doorway of the English room. Classmates were already displaying their respective homemade projects on the windowsill: shoe box doll houses with lounging Barbie figures, an empty fish bowl displaying a miniature community of cheerful ice skaters, some friendly tin foil robots made from small shipping boxes and felt pom pom eyes.
And then there was my raven. Towering above the pleasant scenes and smiling dolls as some King Kong type villain ready to destroy. Its razor-sharp wire talons and brilliantly gleaming beak casted a grim shadow from the disrupted natural window light. And I loved it. I absolutely loved this raven.
Until, that is, a soft, sweet voice from a girl standing next to me innocently commented, “Cool crow!”
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In an attempt to draw a deeper philosophical meaning of why I might be writing about this raven-crow-mix-up event sixteen years after the fact, a parallel became clear. Sharing this anecdote is neither because this comment from an 8th grader still haunts me today, nor to spread anti-crow propaganda, but to inch closer towards realizing perspective.
To me, ravens are clearly elite birds, but that doesn’t make my perspective understood. Our perspective isn’t law, it is, simply, our perspective. In fact, a law, itself, is only the perspective of the majority, not necessarily an absolute truth. Subject to change, given time, additional research and/ or influence.
We favor our own perspectives, of course, and find it easy to critique an opposing viewpoint. I couldn’t possibly understand why one would be fond of a crow, for example. But in an age when division seems to be the only commonality, it is important for one to deeply consider the repercussions of narrow-thinking. It is imperative to understand the necessity in seeking out facts, and digesting that information uncontaminated by another’s opinion. That is not to say that emotionality shouldn’t be considered, it absolutely must, but also considered from an unclouded vantage point.
Having a completely untainted mind separate from the evaluations of friends, family and leaning news outlets is impossible. But one must still continually strive for original thoughts, despite this impossibility of isolation. If history has taught anything, it is that conformity can be a matter or life or death. The ease at which one person at one time can change the minds of so many without concrete facts is frightening, and apparent, once again, today. Following a popular opinion at face value is not only shallow, but dangerous for the rest of societal progression.
Perhaps I am writing this because election day is tomorrow, or, perhaps, plainly, because I don’t follow sports and have no updates in that arena. Or, perhaps, I’ve just given too much thought to an average flock of birds while drinking an average cup of coffee one morning in Regent’s Park. But, regardless of my intentions, I urge anyone reading this to look beyond smoke and mirrors, to do necessary research for the benefit of humankind and the planet, and, if you can, please vote, even if you won’t be physically present in the USA like I am, the action itself, if nothing else, has power. And if you, dear reader, are someone who, indeed, believes crows are preferable to ravens, I welcome your perspective and counterarguments.
