Cual el cuervo, tal su huevo.
This is a prettier way of saying “Like father, like son”, using crows and eggs. There is another saying that uses sticks and splinters, but we don’t like that one as much. Crows may bring bad luck, but at least their eggs get to have a life, they aren’t just a splinter of a dead thing (used to punish or walk aimlessly through life).
An egg that will soon turn into a crow gets to fly. It gets to be adorably naive and eat crabs alongside a flamingo, hoping to change the color of its feathers. If it doesn’t want to resemble its father, that little crow gets to dream of different colors or work hard to become someone else. Whereas a splinter will never grow wings, and due to that horrible comparison most likely will never even feel alive.
Instead of saying “Like tree, like splinter”, they compare me to a stick, to some dead thing. They couldn’t have denied me more clearly the hope of one day having a life of my own.
Life is a succession of events that consume you. Everyone experiences the same things. So, being called splinter doesn’t bother me. I would rather be a splinter than a sprout full of hope. I would rather relive the experiences of someone else. Because termites don’t deserve to eat green leaves, only the same dead wood over and over again.
I may be the son of a crow, but that doesn’t give you the right to call me an unlucky bird, to burden me with such a name. I have my own sins. I don’t see why I should be burdened with someone else’s.
You have no right to take what is mine. My father may have been a crow, but that doesn’t give you the right to deny me my path. I want to be an unlucky bird too. I want to be my own unlucky bird.
If I have to be a broken piece of someone else, I would rather be a tree’s leaf. Because at least I would have my own paths, my own veins, my own life.
If I have to be a broken piece of someone else, if you won’t let me be anything else, I would rather be a bird’s bone. Because then the bird wouldn’t be able to fly, just like me.
I would rather be a splinter. Because all these comparisons do is break the son, deny him. A broken egg is easy to clean, it slips without causing true damage. However, a splinter remains buried. And that way everyone suffers.
I hate being called egg instead of chick. I hate being denied feathers, the ability to fly. All the leaves I see resemble feathers, with their veins full of life and dreams. And that makes me want to be a splinter. To spill the blood my feathers need.
When you call me splinter, you are calling me thief. You accuse me of having taken something from you. The least you could do is have some decency and be truly broken.
When you call me splinter, you are calling me thief. You accuse me of having broken you. You make me feel guilty.
If you knew that to be just like you I would have to experience this disillusion, I would rather have kept my innocence and given up your name.
Why did you let me waste my time being innocent? You should have treated me like a crow from the very beginning.