By Liliana Mitchell
One of my favorite birds is a magpie. They are thought to be one of the smartest animal groups on the planet. They can imitate human speech. They can solve problems using group cooperation. They can even recognize themselves in a mirror. But what I love most about these birds is that they have a reputation for collecting shiny objects.
Of course, this isn’t actually true. The University of Exeter in the UK conducted an experiment on magpies about ten years ago, and they found that the birds just like collecting little objects in general. However, they tend to avoid any objects that are unfamiliar to them, preferring to pick up trinkets and trash they have seen before. Their nests are filled with familiar paraphernalia. Why? We don’t know. Not enough research has been done to fully understand the inner workings of birds. But I like to assume that they do so because it is not only comforting, but enjoyable. How freeing it must be to scour the world for the perfect curio or ornament to add to your home! How satisfying to make what you use and see and live in every day truly your own!
Maybe the reason why I find magpies so intriguing and relatable is my similar love for collecting. My strong sense of self and my eclectic personality have left the shelves of my various childhood bedrooms lined with La La Loopsy dolls, Sesame Street toys, Harry Potter trinkets, Minecraft action figures, Broadway playbills, frog stuffed animals, postcards, buttons, old magazines, and perhaps the most versatile of all, stickers. What better way to truly express who you are than a little vinyl and glue? With the power of the printer (and a few dollars from my parents’ pockets or my allowance), the world of adhesive decals was in the palm of my hand.
Apples, anchors, arrows. Books, bones, bumblebees. Cats, cameras, crystals. Donuts, dinosaurs, dragons. Elephants, eyes, envelopes. Flowers, frogs, fires. Ghosts, gold, guitars. Hearts, horses, hedgehogs. Ice cream, ivy, insects. Jellyfish, jack-o’-lanterns, jewelry. Kites, keys, koalas. Ladybugs, leaves, light bulbs. Music, the moon, mushrooms. Narwhals, noodles, newspapers. Oranges, origami, owls. Paintbrushes and penguins. Question marks and queens. Rainbows and rocket ships. The stars and the sun. Tea bags and telephones. Unicorns and umbrellas. Vines. Waves. X-Rays. Yarn. Zebras.
I can (maybe not proudly) say it’s been about one year and six months since I’ve placed a sticker onto something recreationally. At the bottom of my water bottle, a peeling pink heart declares in sans serif, “Mental Health Matters.” Gifted to me by one of my therapists, it took weeks to determine what object would be worthy enough to tout one of my truthful, if cliche, mission statements. I still have some regrets about placing it so hastily. I have some regrets about leaving it solitary.
I started therapy in the middle of high school, in the middle of the pandemic. Times were strange. Everyone was struggling. It’s no good to have life-changing events happen right in the middle of more myopic life-changing events. I had lost all sense of the world and all sense of myself. It took me a year to start opening up to my doctor, and when I did, she would laugh tentatively at my jokes. “You’re so eclectic,” she’d tell me. “You’re a collector. You’ll find the people who understand that someday. I’m sure of it.”
Did you know that magpies mate for life? At just over a year old, they’ll spend a few weeks seeking out the perfect companion. After, they’ll spend another month building their dome-shaped home-sweet-home. They craft the protective outside carefully, and fill the inside with feathers, soft grass, and even fur or cloth. They’ll commit to a nest even if it’s in disrepair. Apparently, magpies are also good at home renovation. Within two years, they will have experienced a lifetime I have yet to even fathom as I leave my adolescence behind.
When I was just over a year old, I used to be quite the vandal. The furniture in my room bore the scars of scraped-off Disney stickers from coloring books I had long since finished. My mother would scold me about not ruining the things that my father had saved money for. But who could say no to Minnie Mouse? Everything from my dresser drawers to the baseboards to the car windows could not go without my signature. I was basically baby Banksy.
In my current room, no such scars exist. Sure, the plaster on my walls peels in the places where I’ve taped up posters and paintings. But Minnie Mouse is nowhere to be seen. Stuffed into one of the shallow drawers of my cheap, school-issued desk is a stack of over one hundred unused vinyl stickers patiently waiting to see the light of day. This collection of mine has been growing for so long that I can’t even remember where each one came from or what convinced me to get them. I sit with them now, plastic and paper cascading through my fingers and onto the floor of my apartment; My past and my present are scattered around me.
I can’t count how many times I have put away my hopes and interests for the sake of growing up and going forward. I can’t remember the day I packed my La La Loopsy dolls away
for the final time. I can’t remember the day when my fanart and Funko Pops were replaced with textbooks and test-review materials. I can’t remember the day when my focus went from playing pretend to pursuing a profession. I wonder if magpies feel the same. I wonder if they want to go back to being small sometimes. I wonder if, despite their current shiny things, they miss the trinkets they used to have.
Would a magpie trade their ability to fly for a brief piece of their childhood? Would I?
Or would they seek out objects that are familiar to them and build their new life and new nest out of materials they already know? Science says yes. Of course.
I went to a little shop on the corner in a nearby town last week. It’s been a little over a year since I left my parents’ nest. I decided it was time to finally, truly make my own.
I sit on the floor of my college apartment, surrounded by stickers, including the three I bought at that corner store last week. With nearly trembling hands, I peel away the backs, smooth them over the cover of my journal, and admire my work.
About the Author: