Sometime last year, I watched Mudbound on Netflix. It was well-done, if uncomfortable at times, as period pieces dealing with racial and class issues should be. For some reason, while the rest of the movie has faded into a fuzzy memory, one scene, of a woman slaughtering a chicken, is still vivid and sharp in my mind. She used a technique I hadn't seen before, one that wasn't bloody, and didn't require tools.
I put that technique to use for the first time today. Shortly before I moved in, my housemate bought a bunch of chicks, five of which were supposed to be pullets (females). Four of them turned out to be cockerels (males). She slaughtered two of them about a month ago, and the other two have been living on borrowed time... and crowing at 5am.
Knowing she's about to start a full-time job and won't have as much free time, she spent a few minutes trying to catch them this morning but wasn't quick enough, so I grabbed a helper and got both of them. After one escaped her grasp and the other drew her blood, I did what needed to be done and handed them back to her for plucking.
I'm proud of myself for being able to do something I find difficult (not physically challenging, but emotionally -- taking a life is no small thing), but upset that I was in a situation where I felt I had to be the one to step in and do it. I've been in too many situations like that over the years, heard that voice in my head saying, "if I don't do this, nobody else will, and it needs to be done." It's a rough way to build experience and toughness. The scar tissue never goes away.
People who can't imagine having to step up like that will glorify it and call me courageous. I hate it. I hate that people like that are the reason why I have these scars. I do what needs to be done because they won't, and I resent their weakness. Don't praise my strength, develop your own.
No comments:
Post a Comment