The Story
I tried to learn Spanish for a girl once.
It was going really well until I found out Brazilian’s speak Portuguese.
It’s a completely different language. I know this now. I didn’t know it then.
Considering I struggle with English most days, I probably should’ve done a little background check before committing to another language.
Anyway, I did learn a few Spanish words. Mostly the important ones, like cerveza, baño and, years later, cacatúa.
Cockatoo.
There’s a cockatoo that lives near my place. Or maybe he doesn’t live there, maybe he just shows up every morning to remind us all that he owns the street.
He starts screaming at about 5:15 a.m.
Not singing. Not chirping.
Screaming.
It sounds like someone is being murdered by a very angry kettle.
At first I thought there was something wrong with him. Then I realised cockatoos are just like that. They have absolutely no indoor voice, zero respect for sleeping people and the confidence of someone who has never paid rent in their life.
He also chewed through the flyscreen once.
I saw him do it. Just standing there with a coffee, watching this giant white bird dismantle my house like he had a personal vendetta against ventilation.
I didn’t know what to do. You can’t exactly yell at a cockatoo. Well, you can, but he’ll yell louder. And they look at you like they know something about you that you don’t want anyone else to know.
Someone told me cockatoos mate for life.
Which is really beautiful.
It also made me feel quite judged by a bird that had just eaten part of my flyscreen.
I was making this hat around that time. It started out completely white and clean, which I hated. It looked a bit too perfect. Like something an angel might wear to a job interview.
So I started messing with it.
I added the old vintage Petersham. I ripped it up a little, stitched it back together and gave it that big bow because, honestly, no respectable cockatoo is understated. I added a white feather I found on the ground—not one pulled from him, I’m not that guy—and the little silver cross because I felt like I needed some form of protection.
Maybe from God.
Maybe from the bird.
It still needed something though.
Then one morning, standing outside in my underwear while this cockatoo screamed at me from the powerline, I looked at the hat and thought, there you are.
White. Beautiful. A little ragged. Loud without saying a word. More flair than necessary.
Basically a cockatoo dressed for a wedding.
I looked up what cockatoo was in Spanish.
La Cacatúa.
It sounds much more sophisticated than the bastard that wakes me up at dawn.
I don’t know if the cockatoo likes the hat. He’s never said.
But then again, he’s said enough.
KM