Usually, I try to blog in good humor but this one isn't going to be one
of those. Sunday was an important day and a sober
one. There wasn't any joking. A simple sacredness fell upon us all.
We thanked each chicken and went about the ritual business of killing and
preparing them.
The whole experience was so.... well,
it's hard to describe. It was sad and matter of fact and sober and
interesting and straightforward and complex and mundane and subtle and
far too easy and sacred and more all at once.
Killing a
living creature on purpose is a weighty thing. And yet, so very easy
to do with two nails, a stump, and a hatchet. So easy.
And
so hard. Sam asked whether I wanted them processed whole or in
pieces. I said pieces because if they looked like the birds I'd raised
since day olds in my bathtub I didn't think I could eat them.
And yet, we had bought these chickens with the intention of eating the
extra males. We tended them and guarded them and photographed and
enjoyed them, knowing that this day would come.
There should be a word somewhere between 'it' and 'he.' Chickens are
not objects so 'it' doesn't seem right while 'he' seems too human. I
had a telling slip of the tongue and said something about people blood
on the cutting board. Sam quickly corrected me saying that'd get him
arrested- it's not people blood, it's bird blood- very different.
Yes
and no. Chickens are neither 'its' nor 'he's' anymore in my mind. I
tried to explain, saying something sci-fi, like 'being's' blood. But
really that's not quite right either. And I don't know what would be right which is uncomfortable.
Two books come to mind-
On Killing by Dave Grossman and
Greenhorns by Bradbury, Fleming, and Manalo.
I just spent a long time looking through old blogs trying to find where I wrote about
On Killing, this incredibly powerful book I read several years ago. But I didn't write about it. Like a person deafened temporarily after a loud noise, this book so impacted me I couldn't write about it. I just put it on reserve again at the library and I'm going to try to write a little now.
In an early chapter, Grossman writes about how killing animals used to be a part of every day life for the majority of people. Not scary. Not titillating. Not entertainment. Just the facts of life. Killing animals was done quickly, efficiently, and as humanely and matter-of-factly as possible. No torture. No cruelty. No pleasure. A messy, necessary chore like so many others. Since we've gotten away from death as a reality of life, its power leaks out in imbalanced extremes, fascinating and repelling us. Violence and killing entertain and people eat meat but wouldn't kill the animal themselves. This leads to unhealthy places. There was a phrase used by an old soldier, which has resonated for me this week, in which he refers to people who haven't killed as 'killing virgins' and says something like "they are like a bunch of virgins talking big about sex." I think the analogy is disturbing and accurate. The power of sex and the power of killing remind me of one another somehow. This, too, disturbs me. And yet, there it is.
In
Greenhorns, there is a chapter titled, "Moral Clarity through Chicken-Killing" by Samuel Anderson. I could go on, but won't. Read the chapter. Heck, read the book. One observation I will make is that he was right on about it not being the first or second chicken which is most difficult. For me, it was the 5th chicken, right after I'd washed my hands and grabbed a notebook for Tim to take notes in. This
last one was a favorite of mine, a scrappy little gray rooster who
wanted to rule the roost despite his smaller size. He picked fights and
didn't have the breeding qualities but I liked him for his pluck. As I
picked up the knife and cut into the still-warm body, I felt gross. My hands grabbing still warm chicken flesh- yuck! I slowed and Sam turned the body because he thought I was having a hard time with cutting. I pulled myself back to the task and finished.
Later, I cried. I tried to blog and got logjammed with about 4 blogs worth in one pile. I laid awake several times in the night and woke early, unable to sleep. I worried that that I was too affected by killing and then I worried that I wasn't affected enough.
Holy smokes. Moral Clarity through Chicken-Killing, indeed.
Alright, I've had the book sitting open to the page for a day and I can't close it. So here goes:
...[B]ut when you find yourself holding a knife to a chicken's throat, you may discover that you haven't quite covered all of your bases. Yes, you will need to have learned the actual technique...but in truth, the physical act of killing chickens is easy. The emotional act is more challenging. You may be able, but are you willing?
The first chicken you kill probably won't be the most difficult. You'll direct your nervous energy toward focusing on the technical details, making sure you're going through the proper motions, and a moment later you'll realize you did it and that it wasn't so bad after all. A wave of relief and adrenaline will carry you from there, and you might feel pretty good about yourself for pulling it off. The most difficult bird will come later, when you no longer need to keep your mind trained on the motions and it begins to wander, and you finally process what's going on here: You're killing a living creature, a whole crowd of them, and you're not quite sure what gives you the authority to be doing this.
The easy thing is to brush off those thoughts, put them out of mind and keep them there; but taking on the moral and emotional questions is, I think, essential.... When you process your own birds by hand, you aren't letting yourself of the hook....And the next time you think about buying a nameless chicken at the grocery store, you'll ask yourself, as I did: I'm able, but am I willing?
This is an excerpt from an
online interview with Susun Weed. It is a much longer interview but this quote has really stuck with me.
She-who-walks-in-the-woods is often not an actual person, though on
occasion someone does walk in the woods. She-who-walks-in-the-woods
represents the part of all us that does not want anything to die, ever.
She-who-walks-in-the-woods is the part of each of us that resists
change. We honor and recognize that part of ourselves. The part that
wakes up on the morning of giving death and says “Could I put it off?
Could I refuse to wake up? Do I have to do this?” I don’t dread giving
death, but I am never happy about it. It is part of keeping a healthy
goat herd.
My kids really helped me here. Both came crying to me, asking if we could just sell the chickens on Craigslist instead. I hugged them, blessed their good hearts, and offered an amnesty chicken to each- a chicken of their choice which wouldn't be killed unless it made trouble. Then I explained how allowing the roosters to fight and create suffering in the whole flock would be cruel. And I excused them from killing this time. These were my chickens and I needed to take responsibility for ending their lives with dignity.
Last night I cooked a chicken we had butchered and we ate it for supper. Somehow I'd been hoping that it would be the best chicken I'd ever had to justify all this hullabaloo. It was just a chicken like the hundreds of chickens I've eaten before except that the skin had a few little dark black pin feathers left in it so we removed the skin before eating. It was tougher than I'd like and really not any tastier.
There is something about raising my own chickens and then killing and eating them. Awkward initially but significant. I'm not going to like this killing business but I'm going to learn to do it well anyway. I am going to take responsibility for my eating choices and for my chickens. I am going to be willing and able to kill them with dignity and respect or I'm not going to eat chicken anymore. No more letting other people do my dirty work for me. I'm going to learn to do it myself.
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