Survival

Survival

It was my worst nightmare, realized. The single moment in time which I’d been dreading the most for the last year. My stomach churned and knotted up viciously, an anxious sensation to which I had become accustomed. I was already exhausted, dirty, and lonely- my hunger had become a trivial concern. Besides, it was not the hunger causing the pain- I had been hungry, that was true enough, hungry for days- but my hunger vanished as I walked past the small metal cages brimming with animals.
One cage held all the chickens, one on top of the other, a myriad of colors, shapes, and sizes. A classless, desegregated chicken kingdom that was refreshingly oblivious to the mass slaughter which would shortly end its reign.
I glanced away from the chicken cage and noticed that the guys on my team- six of them in all, yep, I was the only girl again- were already huddled together, inspecting the fowl, leering at them as they would mentally grope a passing group of attractive women on the street, sizing them up, nodding smugly as they decided whom they would choose. Oh, there were a few “grenades” in this fowl bunch, but any of the starving portraits of masculinity in front of me would be more than willing to jump on any potential “grenades” for the good of the group. Although none of the men were actively drooling, I kept expecting to catch one of them stealing a sideways glance, winking slyly at their chosen bird, as if to say, “Your place or mine, sweetheart?”
The other cage, the one I averted my eyes from much more rapidly but seemed drawn to nonetheless, was the cage that contained the rabbits. Unfortunately for me, the cage did contain several Easter bunny rabbits- you know the sort. The ones with the lily white fur, floppy ears, and pink eyes. The rabbits, much like the chickens, were piled on top of each other, nervously hopping over one another in a hopeless effort to find the promised escape route. One would get spooked and leap skyward, with the others rapidly following suit, and the peaceful sounds of the forest were momentarily replaced by the rattling of metal on metal, as the cage door banged incessantly against the bars. Then all would be silent again.
Funny, I thought the whole situation would feel different. I thought I would be so hungry after nearly 48 hours of no food and very little water that ripping the head off a chicken would not affect me emotionally. I would be a mad woman, foaming at the mouth, brimming over with hunger and thirst and my animal instincts would kick in. The instructors would have to hold me back, prevent me from slipping into Ozzy-mode and biting the chicken’s head clean off. Even the toughest of the guys would be repulsed by the bloody horror left in my wake. At the very least, even if I wasn’t a blood-thirsty fiend, I had to stifle my squeamishness as one of only three women present at the survival training. There was no room for girly in this game. I could show no signs of fear or apprehension. I had to let go of the person that I was for a few brief moments. It was just a few minutes, right? No harm done. After all, if you didn’t get down and dirty with the guys, you were branded a typical “girl,” insert sneer, and tossed aside. And in this sort of environment, where your survival depends upon the assistance of others, being tossed aside was not something anyone could afford to risk.
We had actually been walking past the cages for two days, on our way to and from various classes on shelter construction, animal trapping, and water purification. When I saw the cages for the first time, my heart skipped a beat and I kept hoping and praying we would be able to spare their lives. It’s important to remember that a hurricane, the fifth of a particularly rough season, was bearing down on the Florida panhandle, and we were all convinced we would be rescued from our survival training before it even began. In my heart, I never thought the time would actually come.
I was wrong.
As we trudged towards the clearing in the forest where the cages were kept, our eyes fell on a long folding table set up in front of our makeshift “bleachers”, which were nothing more than uncomfortable logs laid lengthwise and spaced evenly from one another. I hung out near the back of the group, not talking to anyone. I could already feel the beginnings of uncompromising dread, which I had kept safely tucked away inside of myself for two days. I said silent prayers for the animals in their cages, fighting back tears. God, please don’t let me get the bunny, I prayed, please, not the bunny. That would be so much worse than the chicken.
Now, please don’t misunderstand. I’m not a PETA activist with flowers in my hair, hemp around my wrists, and sandals on my feet. I love a good steak, preferably medium-rare, just enough to see a slight hint of blood mixed in with the juices on my empty plate at the end of a meal. I come from a family whose veins run rich with fishing, hunting, and eating all varieties of wild game. I’ve been present for the skinning and processing of deer, squirrels, rabbits…damn near anything you can think of. I can proudly say I’ve eaten all of the above, as well as ostrich, duck, emu, and bison. And squeamish is for sure as hell one thing no one will ever accuse me of being. Try telling my high school biology teacher I’m squeamish, and he’ll tell you about the stray cat I dissected in his class- he may even show it to you…he probably still has it on ice somewhere. And if that there’s one thing that formaldehyde-smelling feline has taught me, it’s that I can handle even the grossest of the gross. I’ve always prided myself on that…on being able to shut off my emotions and do what I have to do to not be considered a typical “girl.”
But this situation was different, and at first I couldn’t get a handle on why. It’s true that I have never before actually killed an animal, nor have I ever wanted to. It’s one thing to pull a smelly, cold, partially-decomposed cat out of a cooler and start cutting. It’s another thing entirely to hold something in your hands, feel the life pulsing through it’s veins, feel it’s helpless warmth in your dirty hands, and know that the life it has will come to an end if you so choose.
This wasn’t hunting. This wasn’t foraging for food, implementing skills, discipline and patience, and then finally, finally rejoicing in a successful kill. We weren’t putting our traps into practice and earning our meals. I would have proudly gobbled down more than my share of rabbit if I had earned one. But, instead, we were presented with a caged mass of defenseless animals- we even had to wear gloves to hold them, so as to protect our little hands from getting scratched, for God’s sake! And we were told to kill for the simple sake of proving we were capable of killing. That was what I didn’t understand, and what made that particular day so difficult for me.
The worst thing about the whole situation was the haughtiness of the instructors. And the worst one of them, we’ll call him Mr. Taylor, although I can think of much more appropriate names for him, enjoyed and capitalized on the vulnerabilities and apprehensions of the young students in this touchy situation.
“Everyone here is going to kill an animal. I know you’ve heard otherwise…that some people in the team will kill them and others will clean them. We’ll, I’m here to tell you that we’ve done y’all a favor and gotten enough to go around. In fact, most of you will have to kill two animals. And if you’re one of our lucky few girls, you get to go first!”
Although I had become accustomed to Mr. Taylor’s pleasant demeanor, this statement still sent me reeling. Thoughts and words best left unsaid threatened to pour from my mouth like a tidal wave, with me helpless to stop them. I bit my tongue so hard I tasted blood. Let’s just get on with it, already. Stop your damn preaching, you short, power-happy, pathetic excuse for a man. Let me kill my fucking rabbit and go home. Perhaps it was the lack of food or the exhaustion, but my tolerance for Mr. Taylor was waning.
I think it was at this point that I forced myself to turn into that other girl, the one who does everything she’s told because she knows it’s the easiest, least painful way. Sometimes that’s the only way for a girl to survive in this world- to just do whatever is necessary to get people to leave her the hell alone. I tuned out the rest of his lecture because, although I’m sure it continued for several more minutes, I just didn’t give a shit anymore.
Meanwhile, another instructor retrieved the first rabbit from the main cage. He carried it gingerly over to the folding table, rubbing its ears and nuzzling his nose into its soft, white fur as if it was his own pet. The rabbit’s claws dug into his t-shirt, and he had to pull it away from his body for a moment and reposition it to keep it from breaking the skin.
Mr. Taylor saw the other instructor approaching and rubbed his hands together, smiling. “Ah, here we go. Let’s show you how this is done and then you’ll all get your own chance!” He proceeded to grab the rabbit by its hind-legs and flip it upside down. The top half of the rabbit’s body dangled freely in the open air, shaking wildly, while the instructor clung to its two hind legs. He began to pet the rabbit slowly, talking to it in a soothing voice, telling it to relax, just relax. Finally the rabbit did stop gyrating in the air. It hung there, limp, seeming to get tired, most likely from expending so much energy trying to escape, and also from the blood rushing to its head. Then suddenly, and deliberately, the instructor swung his hand through the open air, as if he was karate-chopping a wooden board, and nailed the rabbit with his palm at the base of its neck. The rabbit’s two front legs started to spasm, and then finally crossed over one another in what the instructors lovingly refer to as the final “bunny prayer.”
The death was instantaneous, absolutely no suffering for the rabbit. And that was the only thing that meant anything to me, at that point. I had succumbed to the idea that I was going to be responsible for the death of an animal…that much I knew I could not escape. However, my worst fear was that I would be unsuccessful and the animal would suffer. That was something I would not be able to handle, and knowing that fact made me much more aware of how vulnerable I really was.
There were some laughs and cheers amongst my peers as the rabbit died. I rolled my eyes and shook my head, looking down at the ground and feeling farther away from home than I ever had before. Not everyone was rejoicing, however. One guy even moved towards the back of the group, sitting alone on the ground so he wouldn’t have to watch the animal die. The instructors quickly spotted him, announced his cowardice to the group, and forced him to move to the front again.
I had not been raised to think of animals on the same lines that I would think of people…they simply are not the same. Animals, as much as I love them, do not have souls as people do, although I do hope some part of them ends up in heaven with us. I remember being very proud of my father and brother when they would make a successful kill after a long day of hunting. This did not upset me…I felt that they had earned it. Awake since four o’clock in the morning, trudging across the unforgiving snowy mountain, freezing in a tree stand all day, waiting patiently for luck to bring a deer in the right direction, and then skill finally takes over to determine whether they come home proud, or disappointed. This is what hunting truly is.
Sitting on the ground that day, feeling more alone than ever, I was sickened by the laughs and cheers from many of my classmates. The fact that they seemed unaffected by what they were witnessing, and what they were about to take part in, astounded me. It was horrible to look at the cages and realize that I was going to be present for the death of all those animals. There were probably 50-60 animals locked up in those cages, and I knew they would all be dead in within the hour.
Quit your whining…everyone’s gotta do it. You knew this was coming. Don’t be such a girl.
Now it was time for the chicken…ah, yes. My good friend, the chicken. Since I have been a proud poultry connoisseur for my entire life, I was able to rationalize killing the chicken. Not a problem, you see little frozen chicken parts in the grocery store all the time. Chickens are bred to be food, no ifs, ands, or buts about it. They are not pets.
But the chicken’s death seemed much more brutal, more barbaric. The instructors grabbed a chicken from the cage, rushing through the process, obviously antsy to begin watching the student’s do the killing.
First, you must dig a hole in the ground, a foot or so deep. You place a wooden board at your feet, just shy of the opening of the hole. They demonstrated how to hold the chicken, directly over its wings, with its head pointed to your front. No petting, soft caresses, or sweet words for the chicken-just a firm grip because the chickens could, and would, get away.
Then comes the interesting part. You bend forward at the knees, and place the chicken’s neck underneath the board. Obviously, the chicken is less than thrilled at this point, so the next few steps have to happen quickly. You then step on the board, on either side of the chicken’s neck, pressing the board hard into the ground. Grasping the chicken’s body firmly in your hands, you bend deep at the knees and then pull, pull, pull, pull, until the chicken’s head and body are unable to reconcile their differences and must finally part ways. But wait, you’re not done! Remember that hole we knew was going to come in so handy? Now you must throw the headless hen into its dirt grave so it can thrash around and spray blood freely, without any need for excessive attention or energy on your part.
Surprisingly, the demise of the chicken, while much more gruesome and blood-ridden than that of the rabbit, was not as disturbing to me. Although I think I was so numb at that point that nothing would have bothered me. Let’s get it on. Tough girl. Right here. Ready to kill. Been doing it my whole life. No sweat.
Such bullshit.
Finally, we were ready to get started. Each team got four chickens and three rabbits, and it was up to the members of the team to decide who would kill what.
“Alright, who wants to kill a chicken?” My charismatic team leader demanded.
My hand shot up, hitting the open air before anyone else’s. Surprisingly, more people wanted to kill the rabbits, so it was looking like I would have my pick of the chickens. While karate-chopping Bugs Bunny did seem pretty straightforward, it also seemed relatively easy to screw up. And it was, as I would find out in a few minutes when one of the girls was unable to kill her rabbit. She slammed it on the neck with her palm, several times, but it just kept breathing. Then, her royal brilliance got the profound idea to swing the rabbit into a tree as hard as she could. Nope. Damn thing! Still breathing. Then it began to spasm and twist, but it still wouldn’t die. Her teammates were practically rolling on the ground at this point, tears pouring from their eyes as they laughed hysterically. The instructors stood by idly, laughing at the weak little girl who couldn’t complete one simple task without their assistance. Finally, as the bunny’s breathing became slower and more labored, the girl rendered one final karate chop. Mercifully, this was the fatal blow and the rabbit finally died.
Having witnessed this escapade, I was sickened, furious, and close to tears, yet slightly relieved at having chosen the chicken. True to form, I pushed my emotions aside and feigned enthusiasm and excitement as I trudged over to the metal cages, also feeling the strong urge to be the first one done on my team. I leaned over, surveying the crop. Half the birds looked sickly, some possibly disease-ridden. Oh, well. Monkey see, monkey do.
I reached down towards the open door of the cage, my eyes resting firmly on the ugliest bird I could find. This hen was black and orange, with random bald spots riddled all over her body. She would surely thank me for putting her out of her misery, poor ugly thing.
“Wait! You don’t have your gloves on, girl!” One of the instructors barked angrily at me.
Oh, mercy. What if I would have forgotten those gloves? Thank you so much for saving me the pain and humiliation, kind sir. I think, however, that if this chicken gets in a peck or two before I decapitate her, she surely deserves it.
“Oh, right.” I mumbled, pulling the gloves out of my pockets and hurriedly placing them on my cold, grimy hands, instantly aware that everyone had gathered around, watching me, wondering if this girl has what it takes.
Once my hands were safely snuggled inside my gloves, I grabbed my bird, and we’ll call her Sheila- she’s earned a name in this story. Surprisingly, Sheila didn’t try to escape my grasp. I believe she and I had reached the same point in our minds on that day. We both just didn’t give a shit anymore. No point in prolonging the agony. Let’s just get ‘er over with, ‘kay? Make this easy on me and I’ll buy you a beer.
I carried my little Sheila over to the hole that one of my teammates had kindly dug. It was almost humorous, the way her body and neck seemed completely disconnected from one another (but not as much as they would in a few minutes). Grasping her body firmly, and moving it from side to side, her head and neck would stay in the exact same position in the air, while her body moved wherever it pleased. I stifled a laugh, knowing Sheila would surely be upset at my making light of the situation.
Her body was so warm in my hands. Even through the gloves, I could feel her heart beating, so fast. Her feathers were soft and thick, and through them I could feel how small her body really was. She was relentless with her clucking- that was probably the hardest part. It was not a frantic clucking, more so a nervous clucking. An apprehensive clucking. A what the fuck are you doing with me, please put me the hell down clucking.
Finally, it was time. No more stalling. I could feel my face grow red and heated as everyone’s eyes fell on me. I stood over the hole and stared down into its emptiness, knowing that soon at least part of Sheila would occupy that hole. My teammates had gathered around me, some throwing small words of encouragement at me, some making jokes, others sizing me up, hoping, praying that I would choke and prove them all right.
One of the instructors assisted me in positioning Sheila’s neck under the board. It was at this point that Sheila’s nervous clucking finally became frantic. Loud, panicked, she began to squirm more in my grip, trying desperately to break her wings free of my clutch, giving her one more chance at life. Poor Sheila, she may have just been a chicken, but even she knew the old board over the neck thing never works out well.
It was important to me to make it fast, just so I wouldn’t have to hold her body long after I ripped her head off. I looked at the hole again, measuring its distance, hoping I wouldn’t forget to throw her in there.
Wait! Should I do this? Why am I doing this? I’m not that hungry! I don’t need to eat right now. I can’t do this. I’ve never killed an animal before. I don’t want to kill this animal. I’m not doing it out of necessity or extreme hunger; I’m doing it to save face. To not be one of those squeamish, mall-dwelling, hip-hugger-wearing, gossip magazine-reading, ultra-girly girls. But wait…THAT’S WHO I AM! I DO ALL THAT SHIT! WHY SHOULD I COMPROMISE WHO I AM AND WHAT I BELIEVE JUST TO LOOK GOOD IN FRONT OF PEOPLE WHO MEAN ABSOLUTELY NOTHING TO ME?
This is ALL just a TEST! That’s it, that’s all it is. Come in, sit down, take out your number two pencil and prepare to enter your name and social security number. Be sure to fill in all the blocks completely, however, otherwise your answers won’t count. If you need extra pencils, we have them at the front. And, for God’s sakes, don’t forget to throw the damn chicken in the hole when you’re finished! Otherwise, you fail!
Who was I kidding? I had already failed.
I never had a chance to pass.
I bent at the knees, instantly aware that one of the instructors had taken it upon himself to deem me physically incapable of pulling the chicken’s head clean off. He grabbed my arms from behind and pulled back on me as I pushed up with my knees. The frantic clucking increased, turning horribly painful for a moment, and finally, finally, becoming slightly gurgly with blood as the head began to separate from the body.
I pulled, pulled, pulled…infuriated at the asshole piece of shit behind me who felt it necessary to assist me in the killing.
Get the hell away from me! You told me to kill this chicken; now let me fucking kill this chicken! What right do you have to intrude on this?
I closed my eyes as I felt the head separate from the body. I heard cheers from a few my teammates, genuinely proud of me for completing my task. However, others just grunted silently to themselves, still convinced that I was one of those typical “girls” masquerading as a tough, chicken-killing fiend. I looked down at Sheila’s headless body and sighed, throwing it into the pre-dug grave.
My glory only lasted a few moments, for another member of my team had grabbed one of the rabbits, and those present were quick to leave my gory crime scene for new entertainment, probably hoping desperately for a repeat of the previous botched bunny-slaying. I gazed down at the hole. My chicken had stopped squirming now. She was still in her grave, and an instructor handed me a garbage bag, gesturing towards the chicken and smiling.
“Good job, girl. Pack ‘er up.”
I nodded, defeated, and I grabbed the bag from him. I slowly bent down to retrieve Sheila’s body. I picked her up by her bony feet and dropped her gingerly into the garbage bag. Later that day, I would pluck and clean her alone.
I had proven to everyone that I was not just a typical “girl,” right? I should be proud of myself, right? Not really. No one was any nicer or friendlier to me because of what I had done. My brutal act had helped me to gain absolutely no one’s respect. I was a loner in my group prior to the killing, and I felt even more alone afterwards.
We were told it was survival training, and that killing an animal with our bare hands was a necessary test in order to prove our ability to survive in the wild. For me, the exercise was, indeed, all about survival. The ability to survive with a group of people to which you will never belong. To do anything, and everything, to just for one moment feel like a little less of an outcast. But in order to truly survive, one must be able to accomplish these things without sacrificing their own moral standards and beliefs.
Sheila and I were not so different on that cold, October day.
We both failed to survive.