Bird of Choice

I'm not talking about white vs. Dark meat. Here in Michigan, there are periodically calls to choose a new state bird. Currently, our official bird is the Robin. Some people question why we chose this--it's not unique to here or especially abundant here (it seems pretty abundant nearly everywhere I go in the eastern US), nor, as far as anyone can tell, does it have a distinctive role in the state's history.

A couple days ago, outdoor writer Dave Richey entered the fray, nominating the chickadee and the Kirtland's warbler as alternatives to the robin. These seem to be almost every anti-robinist's go-to birds, for what it's worth.

Richey is a chickadee booster, touting the little bird's charisma and perseverance. Chickadees

. . . trust people, meet us at the bird feeders when it comes time to refill them, and they circle around and land nearby as we complete this task on their behalf. They have a chuckling little voice, are always busy and provide great year 'round entertainment for housebound folks.

This friendly little bird doesn't head south as the other two contenders for state-bird status do. They are tough, individualistic, and a joy to watch when winter arrives. We predict storms by their feeding activity.



I find chickadees irresistibly charming myself, though like the robin, they aren't unique here by any means. The kirtland's warbler, on the other hand, is. They are known to nest only in certain areas of northern Michigan. I've heard rumors of some nests in Ontario, but Michigan is unquestionably their stronghold--or perhaps, their tenuous toehold. The warblers

. . . are few in numbers, and are an endangered species. They nest in Michigan's young jackpine forests, and have slowly increased their numbers from a low of 25-30 birds years ago to over 400 singing males.

Their numbers are counted during the spring nesting period, and it is believed that for every singing male, there is a female. These birds, through the effort of sportsmen and other concerned individuals, have rose from the brink of extinction to their current high point. They leave the state in early fall to fly south and return in the spring.

They are a pretty little bird but are rarely seen except by biologists who lead tours during the spring nesting period when a bird lover may catch a brief glimpse. Only fire and regeneration of young jackpine forests will keep this bird alive.




To Richey, the scarcity of the KW does not make it more precious.

I would hate to have the Kirtland's warbler as a state bird. They are at an all-time high in numbers right now, but any type of jackpine disaster could wipe them out, leaving us with an extinct state bird

Chickadees, on the other hand

. . . are gutty enough to tough out the long winter, are curious and inquisitive, and are not reclusive. They accept humans and flourish because of us.

Leaving aside the question of whether staying put when the snow falls is "guttier" than migrating thousands of miles on your own power and foraging along the way (how do you compare the courage of different survival strategies?), I am led to wonder about the reasons we choose these state mascots. What do they do for us, and could they do more?

As symbols, they are meant to communicate something, and I think the idea is for them to convey something about this state--the unique or representative flora and fauna, or ones that hold a special place in the state's culture. By that last criterion, the chickadee could be a good choice, since Michiganders do like to boast about the toughness of their winters and praise themselves for enduring them. But the case Richey makes for the chickadee (and views like his are advanced by others) makes it into a symbol of something that has little to do with nature. His chickadee is what many in American society see as an ideal human personality--strong, smart, self-reliant but sociable, a good sense of humor. Someone you'd like as a neighbor or coworker. Call me a misanthrope if you must, but I think the non-human emblems we appropriate for our states ought to say something about the non-human environments in which they're situated.

The KW pulls triple duty in that department. First, it is unique to Michigan. No other place (or at least no place remote from Michigan) can claim that as a part of its environment, in the summer months anyway. Second, its restricted habitat needs and limited range bespeak the jack pine woods that flourish only in parts of the great lakes region, when other environmental conditions permit. Finally, it brings us to reflect on the always fluid state of the physical environment, and on the potential of humans to participate gracefully or disruptively in that flow. In short, the KW could bring Michiganders to pay more attention to where on earth they are, and what they do there. Why settle for a state bird that entertains when you can get one that educates?