GREENE CO., MO. — I think I’m having an identity crisis.

Reading about the Ivory-billed Woodpecker controversy stirred everything up again. April’s news that the woodpecker’s existence had been confirmed sent thrills through all of us — but now a throng of skeptics are trying their best to argue that the hope was a false one.

And why? A quest for truth? A valiant attempt to deal fairly and realistically with the scraps of evidence we have, even if it results in ridicule and hostility? Jealousy? Bloated egos clashing with cataclysmic force? Late-summer doldrums?

Who are these people we call birders? Who am I?

There are the I-know-mockingbirds-and-that’s-no-mockingbird birders. Jason and I have laughed about them for years. They’re the ones who call nature centers around the country and try to convince overworked volunteers that their parakeet escaped and hybridized with a chickadee. They’re the ones who write drivel like this.

But sparrows and Blue Jays bring pleasure to those people. Who says they have to know the difference between a Black Rail and a Song Sparrow? Do I have a right to be impatient with them just because they can correctly identify about 5 species?

There are the power birders. They run in packs and have the best equipment money can buy. They are outspoken, oft-published, and well-dressed. They are looked on with the same sense of awe that those in other circles reserve for drugged-up, muscle-bound thugs in jerseys. They publish pages full of eye candy and/or reports of their trips/conversations/opinions of power.

They do a lot to advance the cause of conservation and increase knowledge about our birds. Who would begrudge them their opportunities? Who would lose sleep because the power birders are obnoxious? Do I want to be like one of them or not?

There are the academic birders. They do their best to uncover birds who have wandered far from home — birds that are tattered, worn, slightly quirky, and very sneaky. They spend hours on gulls and shorebirds especially, convinced that ONE of the thousands of birds before them must have taken a wrong turn somewhere south of Thailand. They attempt to estimate feather lengths within just two or three millimeters.

Maybe some birders really are that good. Maybe they aren’t just wishing birds onto their lists; maybe they’re better than all of us. But can I be skeptical? What does it say of me if I confess I have no interest in golden-plover primary projection?

There are the listserv leeches, the tickers, the Bambi birders, and the birders whom some of us have long suspected actually use performance-enhancing drugs. But I don’t have time to discuss all of them.

Then there’s me. Where do I fit in? As always, I like to think I’ve found something of a happy medium, given my resources, commitments, and priorities. But maybe I’m as hopeless as all the rest. Or maybe we’re all OK. Or maybe I really AM the only one who’s got it right.

It’s almost September. Come quickly, fall migrants. Deliver me from this brooding.

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