Flaco in the Sky with Diamonds

Since I left Cuba, Manhattan is the only place where I feel at home. The imperial splendor of La Habana―a city where time stands still since its revolutionary takeover of 1959―resonates effortlessly in Manhattan. The unpredictable energy of the people, the restored or decaying Art Deco, the neoclassical monuments with statues in bronze and marble, the unavoidable public bikes and buses, the Cartesian grid of the streets. Everything makes me call it, among Cuban friends, Manhattabana. 

Like me, Flaco was not born in the Big Apple. In 2010 he was brought to the city that never sleeps from a bird sanctuary in North Carolina. He was a male Eurasian eagle owl, a spectacular creature. He liked to watch people while people were watching him. He spent his entire existence in captivity―his boredom outgrowing his cage―until February 2023, when someone opened the door for him and Flaco escaped from the Central Park Zoo.

The 13-year-old Bubo bubo, as he is officially classified, might have escaped the zoo but did not, however, escape the concrete jungle. Like many exiles, he seemed unable to leave New York. He had to learn how to fly and feed. And how to protect himself from the native birds that immediately showed their talons toward the newcomer. He almost lost an eye. Bird watchers and all kind of experts worried he would not make it. But Flaco not only survived but thrived. 

The authorities tried to recapture the fugitive, but no trap was good enough to lure him back to prison. Flaco approached the traps, surrounded by a crowd of amateur and professional photographers, and then invariably flew away, as if leaving this message: “Better free than safe.”

Finally, the wildlife specialists played the mating melody of a female Eurasian eagle owl for him. Quite a cruel tactic, since there were no partners for Flaco in the tri-state area. He approached, dazed and confused by the delights of desire. Only to understand that it was just the same old promise of a peaceful life in solitary confinement, with everything guaranteed by his captors.

Then, little by little, Flaco explored more and more of Manhattan, always returning to his sacred tree in Central Park. He never crossed the rivers that shape the melting pot island. As a true New Yorker, he wanted to stay close to New Yorkers.

Was he cute because he was curious, or being cute made him curious? In any case, Flaco visited NY apartments again and again during office hours. At night, when he was busy hunting, he spent hours hooting at the Manhattan moon. Desperately searching for Flaca… to hatch who knows how many Flaquitos in their love nest.

Our super star undoubtedly wasn’t shy. He enjoyed being on camera and his feathered pixels would soon be popular overseas. He became a true influencer on the Internet. Months later, he even received his first flock of followers from abroad. And he was about to run for mayor of the-city-so-nice-they-named-it-twice, according to some of his multiple Twitter accounts. Still, far from being another inaccessible icon of New York, New York, Flaco simply stole our hearts. And, before we could say “What is our friend doing today?” he brought Americans together in a time when America needed it most.

Then, after a fabulous year of life in power, on a fateful Friday in February 2024 he was found dead outside an undisclosed West Side building. No one knows what really happened, but I personally feared it wasn’t just an accident. Those who knew his story were shocked. Why Flaco…?

When I rushed home from school, Mónica hugged me in tears. We couldn’t articulate a single word. Spanish was not enough. No language could account for this loss. For a second, life in exile felt so exhausting that we started to sob, softly, like children who have lost a secret treasure or a magic toy. Flaco was our talisman. He kept tragedy away. We felt vulnerable. And guilty: perhaps Flaco deserved to live in a wildlife sanctuary, not in the headlines of the financial capital of the world.

Later that night, many shared a similar reaction on social media. Not only in New York, not only in the United States. The legend of Flaco now belonged to the ages. A few days earlier, Rover, the city’s emblematic bald eagle, had been hit by a car while scavenging on the Henry Hudson Parkway. I remember telling Mónica, with sad relief: “At least it was not Flaco.” But now it was. We should have known better. Quoth the Eagle Owl: “Nevermore.”

Since then, Manhattan has felt lonelier, even when New York has welcomed the spring the way this megapolis always does: with radiant oblivion of the winter season.

For a couple of weekends, hundreds of people gathered for a last goodbye around Flaco’s tree in Central Park. We miss him dearly. Poems and letters were left to accompany Flaco in his last flight. He was brave and funny and gave us hope. In particular, he embodied the ethic of emancipation for those who must start from scratch, while inspiring others still struggling in life to stay afloat. That’s why a petition is being signed to build a statue of Flaco in Central Park. And also, why lawmakers renamed the Statewide Bird Safe Buildings Act as the Flaco Act, which aims to protect birds from colliding with transparent or reflecting windows.

I shared the story of Flaco in my Spanish classes. Even when students hadn’t heard about it, they could instantly connect with the moral metaphors of his meteoric existence. Virtue is naturally easy to spread, although people might feel otherwise in moments of despair. We expressed in writing our gratitude, in Spanish, aware that all languages are universal when love is manifested through them.

Humans can understand one another, if we are to care for each of the inhabitants of our one and only Earth. Muchísimas gracias, amigo Flaco, for bringing back―one more time, in the ancient or postmodern era―the formidable fire of freedom.

Safe travels to Mount Owlympus!

*All the photos were provided by our amazing writer/artist Orlando Lazo.