The Snake Who Taught Me How to Scream
A year removed from this day, with neighbor man acting as self appointed savior, the snake, and I in my own yard, this true story transpired to change my entire privileged worldview.
The doorbell rings as I did what many were doing midday, August 2020. Ignoring the interruption, I roll over and go back to sleep.
Ding dong, ding dong. I stomp to the door in my clearance rack polka dot PJ pants and “I’d rather be napping” tank and peak out to see who I recognize to be our little neighbor barefooted and noticeably excited.
“Ma’am!! There is a snake in your yard!”, he says with the thickest, cutest, southern accent you can imagine coming from a 5–7-year-old snaggle toothed child. (Maybe to my newly transplanted from California ears it was a lot, but being South Georgia born and raised not 50 miles down the road, I assure you, this accent can’t be exaggerated. Go ahead, really ham it up in your mind’s eye.)
“Okay, thanks for letting me know”, shutting the door I stumble back to bed. I’m four weeks into what is a suspected case of COVID-19. And while three negative tests say different, my symptoms are turning into what they are calling ‘long haul COVID’.
Three more rapid rings and a knock this time. Cussing under my breath I answer — “Ma’am, my daddy is about to shoot that snake in your yard, just so you know”. He runs off and I stand there frozen.
What in the actual… BAM! BAM!
He shot a fucking gun at my house. My neighbor just shot a fucking gun at my house.
Pacing now. Lightheaded from COVID or shock, who knows. Voices outside my bedroom window — there’s no way I’m going back to bed now. Fuck it, I’m going out to see what has happened in my yard.
Turning the corner in front of my home to the sideyard, eyes first fall on the still barefoot neighbor kid, hopping around his dad. His dad is dressed for yard work — jeans and work boots. We haven’t ever been formally introduced and if this situation wasn’t so wild it would be weird that I’m in my jammies in my yard standing in front of him. His crazed energy is what’s most obvious; a mixture of adrenaline and excitement in his eyes and the puffed up big-ness of his posture. He’s holding down the, still very much alive, snake’s head with the end of his rifle. I won’t judge neighbor man’s shooting skills, but he’s clearly only nicked the tail of his captive.
Neighbor man sees me and yells, “I almost got the son of a bitch, I know he’s harmless, I just can’t stand snakes! I hate ‘em!” I notice the snake- a black snake, no more than 4 feet long, and he’s right, totally harmless, actually quite helpful, guilty only of existing in this man’s presence. What I remember now was how shiny and beautiful it looked (which is weird coming from me who, I always believed had something akin to a snake phobia) and the eyes — fear, innocence, bewilderment, pain. “Boy go get mama and tell her to get the shovel, now! Go on now!”
I think I’m gonna be sick. Is it shock or the COVID symptoms flaring? At this point I think I know. I feel myself starting to scream for the snake. But nothing comes out. Neighbor kid comes back with the shovel and I hate that I’m relieved for the snake. It doesn’t feel safe to show any feelings in front of neighbor man and kid, so I mumble something and make it in the house because I can’t bear to see the final and certain fate of the snake.
With my front door closed and locked to the scenario closing outside, I fall to the floor just inside and weep for the snake.
I sob for my inaction.
I scream for the whole damn metaphor of the bigger reality that I thought I understood, but couldn’t see.
