Feature | "MEAT me in Heaven": a photo essay

MY APARTMENT – I used to think it was an unfair stereotype. Black people don’t like chicken any more than white people or brown people or yellow people or any other colored people. That’s typecasting an entire race, and that’s not right, I’d say.

I had to adjust my philosophy when I really got to know a few blacks. Ok, so they DO like chicken. But that doesn’t mean ALL black people do. I mean, what about Africans? They’re all too poor to like chicken. Yea, it’s definitely an American thing. The obsession began in Harlem or the South Side, not Uganda or Zaire or Kenya.

However, I am now sure I was mistaken about that, too.

Three observations:

1. Confirmed: black people love chicken. If you’ve ever watched a group of 8 academy students, mostly black, tear into a bag of cheap, stink-filled poultry, you’ll understand what I now know. I mean, watching them eat gives me flashbacks to my worst Cannibal Holocaust nightmares. They eat the chicken like there’s no tomorrow, probably not even enjoying it to its fullest. The point is to rip into it, devour its deep-fried flesh, and suck the bone dry. These guys make Hannibal Lectur look like Mr. Rogers.


2. It originated on the Dark Continent. A quote from my head R.A.: “Oh man, we love chicken. It’s in the blood. It’s refreshing to us. We, like, look forward to the next time we can enjoy some. I mean, I’d do anything for chicken.”


3. It must be (a) greasy, and (b) eaten like it’s greasy. An unsuspecting visitor might step in our lobby and actually believe that these supposed good, handsome, clean-cut Adventist boys are all nice kids. Hey, they had me fooled. I mean, I thought the world of these young men... until I saw them eat. Then, all hell broke loose. They gradually use their hands less and less until their faces are practically buried in a pile of fowl carcasses. And then they lift up their heads and look at you, with meat still dangling from their teeth (THEY’LL GET TO IT, THEY’LL GET TO IT!), and smile, cheeks still stuffed with the poultry and faces wet with chicken grease. It’s their moment of ecstasy.

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It all began early this afternoon, when 8 of my students decided they’d earned a special meal to commemorate the first 18 days of their 2005-2006 school year. They’d sent a native African worker into town to pick up 2,250/- (around $30) worth of fowl and fries, and now, immediately following dorm worship, they intended to devour it.

The gentlemen began by congregating around our lobby’s coffee table, speaking in hushed tones. One of the guys brought the bags of chicken to the table and carefully unwrapped them, gingerly, not to disturb the corpses. He set them, one by one, in front of the men, already salivating at “the sweet scent.”

When the time was right, the leader of the pillaging carefully took a piece and passed the rest on to the boy to his left, who also carefully took and passed. This went on until eight guys held apiece of chicken in their hands. Then, slowly and politely, they bit into their wings, breasts, and thighs, and, after adequate chews, breathed a collective sigh of relief. Their addiction had been fed.

As the seconds passed, however, the courteous and respectful façade faded away, and the terror began. They started eating faster -- slow enough to still be polite, but quick enough to polish off the skeleton and reach for another. The conversation increased, as did the odor of partially-chewed chicken, bathed in grease. The air grew sticky as the boys grabbed piece after piece, each time replacing it with a sucked-until-dry bone.

I couldn’t move, or, alternatively, wouldn’t move. With the amount of “meat being digested” increasing and the amount of “meat left” decreasing, I saw that they’d soon be capturing and consuming anything -- or anyone -- that was in the path of destruction. Bit by bit, I managed to slip back to my office and bolt the door shut, just in time to hear screams of pain and anguish coming from around the table.

One hour later, I unlocked the door, cracked it open, and peeked my eyes out. I was relieved to see that the lobby was cleared and the meat-o-philes had scampered back to their rooms to begin working on their nightly homework. The lobby was cleaned up, and with the exception of the chicken stench still in the air, there was no sign of the massacre that had just taken place.

I breathed a sigh of relief. Finally, the violence is over! Spring is here! The Great Chicken Feast of 2005 had ended. No one had choked on a bone, and with the exception of 2 freshmen stupidly standing nearby, trying to catch a sight or whiff or piece of airborne poultry trying to escape, we had suffered no casualties. Thank God we’re all alive.

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Captions
Picture #1 (left): Harvey Santos looks up while the other guys hunch over their meat.
Picture #2 (right): The victim.
Picture #3 (left): Elvin and I look on as Daniel S. and Lusyomo fight for Shalom's breast... chicken breast, that is.
Picture #4 (right): Lusyomo carefully opens his meal, not wanting to disturb the sanctity of the poultry.
Picture #5 (left): May destruction begin. Chris Bina (center) begins the festivities.
Picture #6 (right): All that remains...
Picture #7 (left): And I tought Shalom was one of the good ones.

-cw