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Have you ever wondered about what life would be like in someone else’s shoes, or fins? Robin did. She rewrote a memory of fishing from her childhood from the perspective of the fish.
The Hackensack River By Robin Becker The stream was muddy, full of silt and toxins, and the water moved sluggishly on its way to merge with the Hackensack River, after which it would dump into Newark Bay and, eventually, the Atlantic. The section the fish swam in that late summer afternoon was under a highway overpass, a concrete structure that cooled the water. It was a place to linger in the shadows, gathering the strength to swim into the sunlit algae and nibble at insects and plankton or take a bite out of passing fish. The fish could scatter her eggs like wildflower seeds in that creek and they would be fertilized. As long as she didn’t reach the Hackensack, she and her progeny would survive. It was 1978. Decades of urbanization and industrial waste, dams and the destruction of the meadowlands, had turned the Hackensack River into a turbid dead zone, an environment so toxic that only the hardiest of species could survive: the mud minnow. For now, though, the fish was safe, wiggling in the plants, her muscles strong as she swam against the mild current and out of the shade of the overpass. The sunlight warmed her dorsal fin and spot lit something shiny in the brackish water. She followed the silver object, moving just below the surface. She calculated its rate of speed and direction, deciding when to attack before it got away. But it disappeared, darting out of the stream like a dragonfly. The fish circled and settled near where the lure had been. Seconds later it was back in the water, inches away, and this time she bit as soon as it moved, chomped down like a pro, an apex predator. The hook embedded in the roof of her mouth and she was lifted out of the water as if she’d gained the ability to fly. But the air was warm and there was too much of it. There was no current caressing her sides, protecting her. She felt dizzy, heavy, and her mouth hurt. A man’s hand covered her gills, flattening her pectoral fins, making it impossible to move. The man jiggled the hook in her mouth, moved it back and forth so the barb cut into her. He cursed and grabbed his pliers. With one violent pull, he freed the hook and though she bled from her torn mouth, its absence was a relief. She lay in the man’s hand, head and tail spilling out of his palm. She struggled for oxygen, panting as only a fish can. The man spoke. “Got one, Sweet Pea,” he said. “A bass. Come check it out.” A child’s fingertip touched her scales and drew back. “Slimy,” she said. “And cold.” The fish was dropped into a bucket of water. She gulped some in and the water moved from her mouth to her gills, allowing oxygen to enter her bloodstream. The bucket was so small she couldn’t turn around and the water barely covered her back, but she was alive. She breathed steadily, getting her bearings. After a while, the girl walked up to the bucket and put her hand in. “Here fishy, fishy.” The girl reached out with her fingers. “Nice fishy.” The fish eyed those fingers. They were small and pale, the pinky not much bigger than a lily pad stem. The fish made its calculations and struck, biting with its broken mouth. The girl screamed and snatched her hand away. Blood ran down her pinky and she cradled it with her other hand. Her father ran over. “It bit me,” the girl cried, more in panic than pain. She hyperventilated a little, took huge gulps of air in between sobs as if she could not get enough. The father took his handkerchief from his pants’ pocket, knelt next to his daughter, and wrapped it around her finger. He kissed the little finger. “You’ll live,” he said. “You’ll be fine.” “I hate that fish,” the daughter said and let the feeling surge through her. Anger spread across her chest and was hot. “No one does that to my little girl,” the father said. “Watch.” He lifted the fish out of the bucket, poking his fingers in her gills. She flopped her tail. He placed her on the ground and stepped on her stomach with his boot. He took a knife from his belt and sawed through the scales and bones underneath the gills, cutting the pectoral fin in half. When he was done, she was in two parts, head and body. The delighted girl clapped her hands and jumped up and down. The father threw the fish back into the creek. Her head floated, one eye facing the sky, and made its way downstream to the Hackensack. Comments are closed.
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This is a website about nonhuman animals, written by human animals taking a Society and Animals class at Minnesota State University, Mankato. Archives
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