Why I didn’t eat chicken for 18 years

by Jillian @ http://blueshelled.com . October 20, 2009 . 11:29AM

If I haven’t outright said it, though I think I have, I know that I’ve hinted to my upbringing on a farm in a rural small town. Until the month before my 10th birthday, I lived at my grandparents farm. It was much like other small farms, not like the large designer farms that make their owners millionaires.

I remember helping plant potatoes as far back as walking age, though I don’t remember ever doing it correctly. Don’t think for a minute that I had to do any of the hard work. My grandfather loved me immensely and treated me like a princess. He asked me to help him to spend time with me, not to make me work. Kids on other farms work. This kid didn’t.

This kid played on dangerous wood piles. She ate strawberries straight from a field and so many peas from the pod that she’d get sick. Roosters chased her (filthy little beasts) and she got shocked by an electric fence on accident one time. She played in the barn, which was supposed to be off limits. She ran down the dirt road behind their house. looking for all the places to play that she was told to avoid. She ate mulberries and played in trees.

She also played in the chicken coop, which was VERY off limits. It was also where she found a mess of chicks that became her playmates. She named them and cared for them and played with them daily.

Until, one day, they disappeared. She was little, probably around 6, and couldn’t figure out why the chickens were gone. The adults carefully avoided her eyes at dinnertime, as the smell of fried chicken wafted through the house. There were many mouths to feed and times were tough. I never said she was the smartest child.

This kid had an evil older cousin, who, incidentally, has turned out to be a great adult. However, he was a pickle as a child and decided to ruin Santa Claus for multiple children in the family (deny all you want, you know you did). That particular day, his mean streak ran deep. He’d been in trouble and I’d been sad and mopey because I couldn’t find my chicks. He came up behind me and, in typical 8 year old fashion said, “We’re eating them for dinner, stupid! What do you THINK chicken is made out of?” I was mortified. Horrified. Stupefied and sickened.

And I didn’t eat chicken for 18 years, with the exception of Mcdonald’s chicken nuggets because we all know that in the 80s they probably weren’t really chicken, so they don’t count.

None. I was angry with everyone, including my grandfather. I’d seen our chickens slaughtered before that day. I’ll spare you the details. It’s horrific, but when you have the option of feeding your family or starving, you slaughter the chickens, even if you know it’s going to hurt that 6 year old beyond belief. Even if she stops talking to you and even if you wonder if it’s damaged the relationship beyond repair.

As an adult, I get it. But I often wonder if the 6 year old inside me ever got over it. There are still times, when I see a picture of a baby chick, that I get a pang in my heart and an urge to go play in a chicken coop.