Remembering a Chicken
As Thanksgiving approaches, I remember an unusual conversation I had in China on October 20, 1998, as written in my travel journal.
Walking along the riverbank in another friend’s village, a peasant woman held up a trussed chicken by its bound legs and asked my friend to translate, “What is this called in English?” “Chicken,” I replied with the guilt in my throat that arose from realizing this very chicken was soon to be on a plate.
As my friend and I sat on a bench by the river’s edge, curious peasants came by to stare at me. The woman holding the chicken was also holding a scissors. Trying not to think of what was soon to come, I answered questions about my age and where I came from. My mind stubbornly remained on the about-to-be-executed as I was asked, “Do you like to eat chicken?” Replying truthfully that I did, I wanted to explain that I’m psychologically a vegetarian, but hypocritically continue to eat meat.
I steeled myself for the horrible squawking and screaming I expected as her husband stooped near the river holding the bird over the water. The fluttering of the wings was brief, and drowned out the snip of the scissors. As I tried to gaze into the river’s distance, I saw the man’s hands moving in a shaking motion.
He handed the victim back to his wife, who held it while the blood continued to drain out of the slash at its throat. Its legs moved uselessly. When its movements came to an end at long last, the woman came closer and asked wonderingly why we were the same age, but her hair was gray and mine wasn’t. She pointed to her earrings and wondered why I didn’t wear gold like rich Americans should. While she was wondering about me, I was wondering about the bleeding chicken and the heavy topic of death.
She continued to chat as she squatted and washed the chicken in the river. She disappeared briefly, and returned with the plucked chicken, which she once again cleaned in the dirty river. Of all the chicken I’ve eaten during my lifetime, this was the first time I had witnessed preparation from the earliest stages. I was glad I would not be eating this particular chicken.
Continuing to gaze over the river and discuss banalities, I silently pondered life and death.
Tags: Chinese countryside; how to kill a chicken; an American, Travel
