"If You Want to Know Why I Don’t Eat Chicken" by Huina Zheng

Ma says I was a picky eater from birth. Wouldn’t drink the expensive formula

she bought with clenched teeth. Ahma came, mixed porridge water with sugar, forced

it down like medicine. Wouldn’t eat rice cereal. When they went to work in the

orchard, they set me in a big bathtub with a bowl of plain porridge, my sister ordered

to watch. Porridge smeared my face, neck, collar, sticky on my skin. Vegetables?

Refused. Only rice with soy sauce. Not far from the mud house was a dump. Dead

livestock, buzzing flies. When Ma stoked the fire, steam rose; flies dropped into the

soup, black specks floating. Lychees? Rarely touched. Our orchard had plenty, but the

fresh ones were for sale. Didn’t like the browned, slightly sour shells. Candy Ma

bought? Maybe. But I longed for the White Rabbit brought by my uncle, who slipped

into Hong Kong. One day, I dragged a stool, stretched for it. Ma beat me with a broom

until bruises bloomed. Fish? Rejected. Sometimes she cut into the bitter gall. Pork?

No. Hated the shriek when Ba slaughtered pigs, feared the bristling stubble on their

skins. Snake? Never. Green ones slithered behind the mud house. At night, lamp in

hand, I dreaded the thud in the woodshed. Something hitting the ground. But I liked

bitter melon. Stir-fried, braised, no matter how sharp. So bitter my parents winced, but

I savored it. Enjoyed green plums. My sister climbed the tree, I caught them below,

dodging caterpillars dropping from branches. Loved watermelon. Once or twice a

summer. Juice on my face, sticky fingers, licking them clean. Ate fried freshwater

snails. Sucked hard; if they wouldn’t budge, I dug them out with a toothpick. Tongue

numb from spice, couldn’t stop. Once loved chicken, especially drumsticks. Until we

killed Redcomb. Redcomb, who crowed every dawn, fought rats, guarded chicks,

strutted around the yard, head high, proud. Ma raised the cleaver. I stood nearby. Saw

tears bead and fall from his eyes. Trust breaks. It shatters. Like Ba’s fist rising and

falling on Ma.

Huina Zheng holds an M.A. with Distinction in English Studies and works as a college essay coach. Her stories have been published in Baltimore Review, Variant Literature, Midway Journal, and other reputed publications. Her work has been nominated thrice for both the Pushcart Prize and the Best of the Net. She resides in Guangzhou, China with her family.