Swans

In the photo album my father made for me when I was born, there is a picture of me standing at the shore of a lake. The picture was taken in the park of the town where I am from. It is the winter of 1981. I am wearing a brown cardigan (at least that´s the color I remember it to be – the picture is in black and white) and a thick hat with a toddle. I look into the camera, look like a little boy, my face distorted somehow, almost angrily. I am not happy in this picture. Is it, because there was no more bread?

My father sometimes put half a loaf of bread aside during winter times. When it got dry he cut it into small pieces and put them in a plastic bag. Then we took the bread and went to the park. When we got to the lake shore, my father usually gave me the bag – at least that´s how things went before my sister was born. I don´t remember the time after, even though in the photo album there are lots of pictures from this period, too.

And then I waited for „my“ swan. Charlie was his name. A beautiful, huge, white swan. With my four years I was convinced it must have been always the same swan coming close when I put the first pieces of bread into the water. I always marvelled at him: How far he could stretch his throat to reach for the bread, how elegant his feathers looked and how beautiful his eyes were.

My whole romantic swan world fell apart when Charlie started a riot one day. He had been swimming some meters in front of me in the water just a minute ago. We were eyeing each other. And then, very suddenly, the atmosphere changed. Charlie started flapping his wings wildly and hissing loudly. He came closer and closer to the shore. I backed off, irritated. Finally my swan reached the shore and started running towards me above the icy ground with his red swan feet.

My father pulled me to the side. To this day I remember clearly the way my heart was racing with fear that day. I was scared of the swans hugeness, of his power and I was afraid he would reach for me and beat me with his strong wing. I grabbed my fathers pants and clasped my arms tightly around his leg. I was horrified, shivering and confused, all at the same time. What had happened to Charlie?

Back then I owned a record with the story of the little duckling that feels ashamed because everyone tells it how ugly it is. I had always felt a deep sympathy and solidarity with the young duckling, I loved this fairy tale and I was very happy when I saw a swan family swimming on the lake in the park. You ain´t ugly at all, I thought. That´s why I felt somehow betrayed after this experience with Charlie.

For a long time I did not dare going back to the lake, I didn´t enjoy feeding swans anymore, not even ducks. Comparatively, I thought, they were pretty boring. In general, the experience caused me to instinctively back off for many years, when I saw swans anywhere. In the last years I have become more relaxed around them again. Today I admire their power and the diva in them. They are beautiful and so very graceful until something starts annoying them. Then, very fast, all smoothness disappears and unambiguously they claim their space. They know how to defend themselves.

Today I think, in a certain way swans are almost a queer feminist symbol. It stands for a lesson: "Don´t let my appearance fool you about what power lies behind my elegant, plushy feather dress", they breath and squint their beautiful, smooth eyes, while they are confidently swimming in circles, in the water, in a safe distance...