On Fridays we kill chickens.
I expected to write a blog about this. I don’t know what I was thinking. I don’t know what I expected to tell you. Was I planning to go into detail about their methods? Maybe I was going to draw some offbeat metaphors? I really don’t know. I don’t know what to tell you.
Because here’s the deal: we live at an orphanage in La Libertad, El Salvador. It’s always at least 90 degrees and humid. We’re right next door to a vibrant surfing community and we go to the beach when we can. We work 12 hour days. There are kids everywhere. And on Fridays, we kill chickens.
I did go, on Friday, to try to participate in killing the chickens. Maybe I could pluck them, I thought. I like to think I’m the kind of person who would try anything once. But I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t kill the chickens. I went, I saw. I won’t go into detail. I understand that people kill chickens and eat them and all that. It’s totally fine. I just cannot kill a chicken.
So rather than drawing any grand conclusions, I’m just going to leave you with this fact. On Fridays, we kill chickens.
Look. It’s Kelly, on Friday.
