Having visited my rural grandparents, I learned how to kill chickens for dinner, and it was easy. You simply wrung the chicken’s neck. The hard part was in catching the chicken, but my grandmother had a “chicken catcher” — a long, stout wire with a handle on one end and on the other, a wide hook, which narrowed to an inch or so (see image). You simply slipped the hook around the chicken’s foot, and the chicken could not break free, and you pulled the squawking chicken to you, and then wrung its neck.
When I was about three or four years old and onwards, it was the delight of my brother Stuart, my cousins, and me to catch several chickens for my grandmother, “Nanny,” who lived on a farm on the outskirts of Eastman, GA. She’d fry them up for dinner for our large extended family.
Since pork was out, as were sheep, goat, and fish, I’d often have chicken for dinner in the Peace Corps in Siou and Niamtougou. I’d buy the chickens live, their feet tied loosely together so they could walk but could not run. I didn’t need a “chicken catcher.” I’d sprinkle shelled corn on the ground, and as the chickens ate, I’d grab one.
Being older and more empathetic since I was now 23 years old, I felt for the chicken running around with a wrung neck, before collapsing over, dead. I tried cutting the chicken‘s throat, but with the heart still pumping, blood went everywhere, including on me.
I finally found a way: I’d catch the chicken, stroke it to calm it, and with my boot heel, dug a shallow hole in the earth. I’d then put the chicken by the hole, gently twist her neck, and with my sharp knife, cut the jugular vein. The chicken was not struggling, but one eye was fixed on me. As the blood drained out, her eye glazed over, a kind of gray cloud, gradually covering her pupil. She had not struggled. She was dead.
That became my practice. Since I had two choices of meat, chicken or beef, I’d kill a chicken at least once a week, and eat all of it, except the head and feet.
I learned from experience. At the restaurant in the train station at Blitta, Togo, one could order chicken and la patte, a kind of congealed grits and a staple in West African diet. You paid more for selected pieces, the breast being the priciest. One could order the head and feet, the waiter bringing the white patte, on which was placed the chicken’s head complete with cockscomb. At the base of the neck were the two feet, still yellow to its tips, and from its open mouth extended the chicken’s two scaly legs.
Not wanting to appear picky, I summoned my courage and ordered it as the brain, though small, was supposed to be good. As I munched down to crack the skull to get to the brain, I felt something soft and round between my teeth, so I bit down, felt it squash and tasted the liquid. I looked down. I’d been avoiding the two eyeballs, but since there was only one remaining, I realized what I’d just eaten. Needless to say, that was the last time I ordered the head and feet.
One night my friend and fellow Volunteer Ron Philips came to visit. He’d been living by himself in a very isolated village about a day‘s travel from me. He was fun, a good conversationalist, and well read, having been a philosophy major at the University of Virginia. I told him we’d have fresh chicken for supper. I caught a chicken, held in my arms to calm it, dug the hole, and told Ron what we were going to do. Ron volunteered, so I gave him the sharp knife. With one hand, I was holding the chicken’s head, the other, her body, and was lowering her to the hole – at which point Ron whacked off the chicken’s head. Much to my astonishment, I was now holding her head in one hand, and her body in the other, and since the heart was still beating briefly, the blood was gushing in all directions from the headless neck, but principally on me.
I threw the chicken into the air, but the damage was done. I had to change clothes. I never did get a plausible reason from Ron, and from then on, I killed my own chickens, humanely.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
George W. McDaniel, PhD, is the President of McDaniel Consulting, LLC, a strategy firm that helps organizations use history to build bridges within itself and to its broader constituents. For 25 years, he served as the Executive Director of Drayton Hall, a historic site in Charleston, SC. A native of Atlanta, he earned a BA from Sewanee, a MAT (history) from Brown University, and PhD (history) from Duke. Interspersed through those years were travels to many places — Europe, Africa, Vietnam — where he saw peace and war and learned by experience about cultural differences and commonalities. For 40 years, he built a career working in education and history museums, beginning with the Smithsonian Institution, and earning awards at the local, state, and national levels.
“Building Bridges through History”
The company’s tagline is grounded in McDaniel’s personal beliefs and his professional experience. Services address site management, preservation, education, board development, fundraising, community outreach, and more.
Rather than using history to divide us, McDaniel helps organizations use history, especially local history, to enhance cross-cultural understanding and to support local museums, preservation, and education.
Turning Beliefs into Actions
Dr. McDaniel led volunteer efforts with Emanuel AME Church and historical organizations in Charleston to use historic preservation to enhance racial reconciliation and healing.
A frequent writer, speaker, and facilitator, reach him at gmcdaniel4444@gmail.com or through his website www.mcdanielconsulting.net.
Images courtesy of the author unless otherwise noted.
McDaniel Consulting LLC is a strategy firm that helps organizations use history to build bridges within itself and its broader constituents. 