thighs and wings

When I was a child of perhaps ten years of age, my parents took the family to some sort of outdoor exhibition in the United States where there was a Birds of Prey show. The birds, somewhat wild, but still trained, would swoop above the crowd and return to a handler's glove at the command of a whistle. When the beautiful redtailed hawk appeared, the handler asked the audience, "Does anyone know what this guy eats?"

A man in the audience, overcome with excitement and perhaps beer bellowed out, "Republicans!"

The handler laughed, the crowd laughed, my parents laughed. And then the show continued. I leaned in to whisper to my mother, "Mum, what's a Republican?" She said, "Shh... listen to the show."

"Dad?" I tried, "What's a Republican?" Dad said, "I'll explain later. Don't interrupt the show."

Based upon my parents' reluctance to explain Republicans I decided for myself that a Republican was something dirty, probably sexual, something icky and not meant for polite conversation. I didn't ask them to explain later, convinced I no longer wanted to know.

There is a commercial on television lately that makes me laugh in which a father changes his "Oatmeal" label to read "GOatmeal", in an attempt to keep his children away from his favourite cereal. This reminds me of being a child when I believed that "skim" milk was actually "skin" milk, a thin bluish liquid somehow extracted from the skin of corpses. And rose "hips"! My mind went wild with that one.

In adulthood, my earlier preconceptions and misunderstandings still seem to hold power. Though I have learned what Republicans really are, as well as skim milk and rose hips, their initial ability to frighten me a little hasn't completely gone away.