I’ve just pulled up to the drive-thru speaker at a fast food restaurant.

Employee: “Welcome to [Restaurant]. May I take your order?”

Me: “Hi. Can I get—”

Employee: “AH, F***, HE’S BACK! [OTHER EMPLOYEE], HE’S IN THE KITCHEN! HELP ME!”

I pull out my phone and dial nine and one. I’m about to hit the final one when the drive-thru window pops open and an opossum goes flying out.

Employee: *Clearly out of breath* “Sorry… We’re… closed, due to, uh, sanitary reasons…”

Me: “…did it bite you?”

Employee: “Nah, he got a mouth full of chicken and he was not letting go.”

I am the oldest of seven children. For my parents, having so many children meant that taking vacations was challenging — both because of cost as well as simple logistics.

One summer, when I am sixteen or seventeen, my parents had the bright idea to go camping for a few days up in the mountains near our home. Please note that my parents are not campers. They have to borrow a tent and most of the items needed for camping. They borrow a six-man tent and figure that it will hold us given that my younger brothers and sisters are small. My father has a few cows and a horse on a hobby farm that he owns, and he decides we will pack the horse and use it to haul the camping equipment into the campsite.

The day dawns, and my parents pack us tightly into a truck being used to haul the horse trailer to the trailhead. We get the horse all packed up and set out: Mom, Dad, and seven children ranging in age from seventeen to two.  

Five minutes later, the entire pack slides off the horse and onto the ground. My dad repacks the horse, and we set off again.

About thirty minutes later, the horse sits down and won’t get up.  

The pack is just too heavy for the animal, so we have to take some of it off and distribute the camping gear amongst those of us who can haul it. My youngest sister (the two-year-old) obviously can’t hike, and she is passed around from back to back. My next youngest sister (who is five) starts getting tired, and soon the oldest of the kids are all packing camping gear AND two children, switching off from time to time. We probably end up hiking for about ten minutes and resting for about fifteen.  

We finally arrive at the place where we are to camp, completely exhausted. Amazingly, the tent goes up without too much trouble, and we all start exploring the area.

At this point, I see my dad pull out a rifle.  

Me: “What’s that for?”

Dad: “Well, there are bears around here.”  

Me: “Bears?! Where did you get the gun?”

Dad: “From your uncle.”

Mom: “You’ve never shot a gun in your life.”

Dad: “It’ll be fine. Plus, the horse will warn us if anything comes by.”

I went to bed that night with the realization that the only thing between me and death by carnivore was a thin tent, a tired horse, and an inexperienced rifleman.

We quickly discovered that the six-man tent was NOT big enough to accommodate us all. We were jammed into the tent like sardines with wiggly little bodies. I was pushed up against the side of the tent and found myself on a slight incline with my head going down. I spent the whole night that way.

But amazingly, I got more sleep than my dad did; I found out later that he spent all night long sitting up at night sounds with the rifle in both hands. (Years later, it sank in the potential disaster that might have resulted from a nervous man with a loaded rifle sitting in a tent full of little kids. Yikes!)  

Well, no bears attacked, and we woke up the next morning sore and tired and cranky. My mother tried to make pancakes over the fire, but they either stuck or burned, and my younger siblings whined about smoke getting in their eyes. My parents scrapped the plans to stay a few days. We hiked back out that morning and went to an amusement park.

My family never went camping again.

I’m a lifeguard at a beach on the “Jersey shore” as the tourists call it.

I see my coworker having a heated conversation with a beachgoer. As I approach them, the beachgoer shouts some profanity, kicks some sand, and storms off.

Me: “What was that all about?” 

Coworker: “Oh, he wanted to know what time the dolphins were scheduled to be swimming by.”

CONTENT WARNING: Animal Cruelty/Death

This is just a collection of my experiences with chickens throughout the years. It begins at age eight. Unbeknownst to me, my dad has always bought a live chicken to cook for dinner on Chinese New Year. I just have never seen the chicken before, since I am usually off playing with my cousins. This is the first time I see it, but my brother knows this and decides to mess with me. This is before noon.

Brother: “Hey, [My Name]! Look, Dad finally got you a pet!”

Me: “Woah, really? Oh, wow! A chicken!”

Brother: “Yeah. Cool, huh? Why don’t you name it?”

Me: “I’ll call him Tony!”

And so I spend the next few hours playing around with Tony and chasing him around the backyard. Come dinner time, my brother mentions something to me.

Brother: “Hey, have you noticed where Tony is?”

Me: “Oh, yeah! We forgot to feed him! Where is he?”

Brother: “On your plate.”

It takes me a few moments to realize what he means. When I do, I excuse myself from dinner and leave to go cry in my room while my brother busts a gut laughing. Rest in peace, Tony.

The next story takes place at age thirteen. I am now fully aware of what I have come to call the yearly chicken sacrifice. I make sure I don’t interact with the chicken before its time is up, and I make sure to not waste any of the meat so as to not let its death be in vain. My brother has realized I won’t fall for the joke again and has given up on messing with me. This is just pure bad timing.

My brother is helping my mom with the food. I’m probably goofing off.

Brother:  “Hey, can you tell Dad to come inside? It’s almost time to eat.”

Me: “Yeah, sure.” *Goes outside* “Dad, it’s—“

The scene before my eyes is flailing chicken legs and feathers flying everywhere as I see my dad drowning the chicken in our backyard sink. I compose myself enough to say, “It’s time to eat,” before running inside. My brother asks what’s wrong and after I explain what, he starts laughing like before, while I put on headphones and try to drown out my surroundings.

Now I’m sixteen. I have taken a vacation with my dad to China with a tour company, and we end up at a rustic farming village. The other tourists in our group are all old men, so my dad is having a blast while I have no one to interact with. I spot a nearby chicken wandering in and out of the building, so I just watch it. Eventually, I get curious and decide to approach it cautiously and pet it. Right as I befriend the chicken, the owner of the hostel notices me.

Owner: “Hey. What are you doing, girl?”

Me: “Oh, I just wanted to—“

Owner: “Oh, you want chicken for dinner? Sure! Free of charge, just for you!”

Me: “WAIT! WHAT? NO—“

The owner grabs the chicken and dangles it by the legs.

Owner: “Hey, [Chef]! Chicken soup tonight!”

My dad and the group of tourists cheered and thanked me for getting them an extra dish for dinner. That night I couldn’t bring myself to eat the soup. I mourned for the chicken and thought about how it might’ve lived a few more days if I just hadn’t gone to pet it.

Later, when my dad and I video chatted with my mom and brother back in the USA, my dad told the story of how I had inadvertently killed a chicken. Cue my brother laughing his butt off once again. Rest in peace, Tony, water chicken, and China chicken. I remember you all fondly, and a little traumatically.

I am at a five-star resort looking at the live fish tanks at their Chinese restaurant. All types of fish are on display, and I am commenting to my friend while our waiter is nearby.

Me: “Look at these fish; they’re so cute. How can you even eat them?”

Waiter: “Two ways, ma’am: either steamed or fried.”

I think maybe this was a translation issue, but I got my answer!