An Opus dedicated to:
Wilbur, Porky, and that charming pig from Green Acres

     In the cult classic, Pulp Fiction, Samuel L. Jackson makes the casual statement over his breakfast that he doesn’t “dine on swine because pigs are filthy animals.” I had always wondered at this statement and at the general attitude of a society that condemns pigs as dirty, despicable creatures. If someone eats too much or too quickly, he’s a pig. If someone has a messy room, she’s a pig. If someone takes too much of the blanket, he’s a cover-hog. Pigs are always the scapegoat and the object of ridicule. There had to be another side to the story.

     But that was the last thing on my mind as I settled down to a good night’s sleep in the rural Han Chinese home where I was staying for a few days during my Winterim vacation. Little did I know that the meal I had eaten earlier that day had planted a bug in my stomach that would lead to an unprecedented enlightenment of my dietary consciousness.

     Everyone knows that all too familiar sensation at the pit of their stomach, when the tectonic plates of the bowels shift, triggering the irreversible reaction that will ultimately lead to the volcanic eruption of la duzi. I panicked. I grabbed the nearest flashlight and a roll of toilet paper before bolting to the outhouse. I opened the door to the foul-smelling shack and looked down, searching for a safe spot to relieve myself. All that lay between my feet and the pit of waste below were a couple of flimsy planks of splintering wood that trembled under my weight. I positioned myself on what I judged to be the strongest of the floorboards and leaned back, resting my upper body on the hand I had strategically placed on the low stone wall behind me. With the flashlight clenched between my teeth and beads of sweat pouring down my brow, I braced myself.

     Nature ran its course, and my alarm subsided. But my momentary state of relief was interrupted by an ear-splitting squeal from behind me. I turned around to discover that the stone wall I was leaning against was in fact the only barrier between the household cesspool and the home of the household hogs. The two animals were huddled in the opposite corner, absolutely mortified. Some faceless stranger from the cold night had burst in and used their home as a feces receptacle. The sad part of the situation was that these pigs’ home was in fact just that. They had been sized up, paid for, and cast into an outhouse where they lived a poor excuse of a life where their food was mixed with excrement. That night, I returned from the outhouse with a newfound sympathy for the lives of hogs.

     Five days later, I arrived in another rural village, occupied by the Dong ethnic minority. In celebration of our arrival, they planned to slaughter several pigs for a welcoming feast that evening. I felt ambivalent about becoming a spectator to such a gruesome event. But curiosity dominated. I had seen enough to open my eyes to the suffering of hogs, but that was only half of the story; I needed to see how it ended. Besides, I am the great grandson of a man who once performed such tasks for a living; filial duty demanded that I witness the process by which we all procure our hotdogs.

     The pig whose life was about to end sat peacefully in his stall, which also served as a lavatory. The young men from the village approached slowly from behind the unassuming, gentle beast. As they pounced on the poor animal and pinned him to the ground, cries of fear, pain, and struggle could be heard ringing through the town. Strung up and thrown over a set of shoulders like a heavy sack of dry cement, the pig hung helplessly as the young men brought him to the edge of a quick-running creek. The pig was laid down next to his fellow victim, and as they quavered one could easily gather that these poor animals were fully cognizant that they drew their last breaths there on the banks of the creek.

     The first pig went quickly enough. A man shoved a long, harsh blade into the pig’s jugular, and the ill-fated animal squirmed and squealed as he faded out of being. The second pig was not so content to lie there as these men robbed him of his life. His eyes, incredibly akin to that of a human, had been watching the procedure and he knew what was coming. The pig would not stop trembling and screaming out of fear and protest. But the doomed animal was no match for the group of young, hardy Dong villagers who held him down. Like the first pig, this victim’s throat was pierced by the same large knife, already covered in blood. He struggled, kicked, screamed, and refused to submit, fighting an already lost battle for life until the last drop of blood had been drained from his neck and collected in the bucket below. It was at this moment that I gained an incredible amount of appreciation and respect for the sacrifice made by pigs all over the world. They live in shit, humiliation, contempt, and ultimately forfeit their lives for the gustatory enjoyment of their ungrateful human counterparts.

     The night that I returned to Beijing, my host family welcomed me home by treating me to a nice dinner at my favorite local restaurant. When it came time to order, my host mother eagerly listed my favorite dishes, such as Gung Pao Chicken and Tomatoes with Egg. But I cringed as I heard her proclaim the final dish that our table was to enjoy that evening, Bo Luo Gu Lao Rou, Sweet and Sour Pork with Pineapple. Patronage wasn’t high that evening, so it wasn’t long before all of our dishes lay in front of us on the table. There they sat, the batter fried strips of plump pork, dripping with the tantalizingly sweet red sauce and covered with luscious chunks of fresh pineapple. I gazed down ruefully at the culinary masterpiece before me and remembered the poor innocent pigs I had met on my Winterim journey. I thought of the life that must have once belonged to the flesh that sat before me. My heart wrenched as if something inside of me were dying. My face paled; my knuckles whitened. But before I knew what was happening my carnal instincts reclaimed their position in the driver’s seat. I dug in, savoring each bite, indulging my taste buds to their fullest. I was like to a ravenous, wild, pregnant beast who would not stop stuffing her face until all nine bellies inside her had eaten their full. Moral determination took over as I licked the plate clean with as much zeal as I could muster. Somewhere, somehow, this pig that I was eating was going to know that he tasted damned good, so that he, too, could retain the slightest amount of dignity that should be afforded all beings.