The Animal In Man
When the rooster’s spine broke, it didn’t die immediately. Its neck slumped over the right shoulder and rested its delicate head on the upper back. The never-altering emotionless eyes of the animal continued to catch glimpses of its opponent; consequently, its frantic feet thrust the creature into circles. The rooster spun, gradually losing speed and life; it sustained a confused aggression that exhausted the animal to its final breath. As the chicken fell to the ground, lifeless, a boy no older than eleven slowly climbed into the ring and retrieved his failed prizefighter, grabbed it by the feet, and walked away as if carrying a heavy knapsack out of detention. The now empty canvas ring shot me back to reality as I noticed I was not sitting in tears but standing, leaning forward, fists clenched.
Twenty minutes earlier I sat down apprehensively to the first fight of the night. Immediately, the casual atmosphere of the small stadium seated arena struck me. Groups of friends, fathers and sons, and refreshments; shit, I was looking for a program and wondering if Beckett was the starting pitcher! I was rudely awakened minutes later as two roosters fought viciously with pointed beaks and spiked talons for what couldn’t have been longer than two minutes. As one fighter fell dead with a dull crumble, I turned to my friend to find what I imagined was a reflection of my own face, something between the loss of innocence when you learn Santa doesn’t exist and alienated loneliness when you realize even if he did exist you are still Jewish. We sat in shock for what felt like an eternity only to realize we were suddenly the only ones left in the arena. We later learned from our friend (who had taken us to the fight) that everyone had congregated to discuss who we were; apparently we were the first Americans to ever enter the secluded Puerto Rican spot. I don’t know if it was the Ralph Lauren jams or the crisp Jordans, but we were spotted as Americans, and Americans don’t like their animals killed one bit, well, at least not for the first twenty minutes or so.
I left that experience and returned home to the United States still opposed to what I interpret as animal cruelty and by no means a cockfight aficionado. However, my judgment of what initially seemed to be universally wrong was a narrow-minded conclusion. Without considering that my standards might have been shaped differently if I had been born somewhere else and believing that I held a monopoly on the truth, I had not considered the importance of context. Being an outsider can awaken recognition of just how blindly sure one can be when in the majority. When I asked my friend who brought us to the fight (and grew up training roosters and surrounded by cock fighting his whole life) if he ever felt cock fighting was morally wrong, he answered, “No, of course not, what do you mean?” I told him about how some people fought dogs in the United States and he looked at me responded earnestly, “Dogs? Well that’s terrible.”
Note: I have been thinking about the American cultural response to the Michael Vick case and felt my experience pertained to underlying issues the case raises. I want to make it clear that under no circumstance does this story mean to excuse the cruelty of dog fighting.
12:13 am on August 20th, 2007
damn, crazy person above me. uh, i was going to say, i really like this piece. impressed w palms out for posting articles like this.
6:14 pm on August 26th, 2007
WOW!
What the HELL is that 3rd post about?! I’d love to know who’s responsible – surely he’s in desperate need of institutionalisation? Anyway, it’s a spectacular read; I’ve pasted it into a text file for closer inspection. We’re talking about a staggering level of delusion and insanity here. I’ve forgotten what I came here to say because I’m just so blown away.