Warning: this story is graphic and not for everyone.

Today I decided to face reality and come to terms with food sourcing. In other words, I slaughtered a turkey, or at least supervised while someone else did. As an omnivore and semi-regular meat-eater, I felt it was time I gain an appreciation for the life that is taken in order for me to have sustenance. The man who sacrificed my turkey laughed at this concept as I documented the event, but as someone accustomed to the luxuries and conveniences of the developed world where meat comes beautifully packaged and perfectly trimmed, I thought it was an important and necessary rite of passage.

In theory, I know how to kill a chicken; my mother told me how to do it, but I have never attempted it for myself. Instead, I have come to expect my meat either cooked for me or ready to be cooked. I realized how much I took the process for granted and that in order to proudly continue to eat meat, I needed to see first hand what happens.

I bought a turkey a week ago and have been feeding it all with the purpose of eating it tomorrow for our early Thanksgiving dinner. When I purchased it a friend asked what I would be naming my new-feathered “friend.” My instant tongue-and-cheek response was “Dinner.”

Of course when I bought the bird, I knew slaughtering it would be a challenge so I inquired with several people and was able to find someone willing to come to my house to take care of business (which was AWESOME because the idea of carrying a live turkey on the back of a bodaboda, or mototaxi, was only amusing if I was not the poor sucker who had to do it). I thought I had everything set, including the boiling water for the defeathering, when I realized: I still have to carry the turkey from its coop to its sacrificial resting place. I stood there like an idiot staring at the turkey wondering what call I could make to entice it closer to the door, with absolutely no idea what to do next once it was within arm’s reach. Fortunately, I was saved by our guard who grabbed the turkey by its wings and carried it to the back of the house.

It was now the moment of truth and for a prolonged, yet brief moment I wanted to back out. Here was a majestic bird, named Dinner, who could have a long life ahead of him. I watched as he was placed on a garbage bag, held down and his head (what seemed to be very slowly) cut off. I was already cringing, uneasy and tearing as the turkey took its last breaths, but as I watched its decapitation, I started to take steps backward. It just seemed like a brutal end: blood spurting out of its neck and continual twitching. The turkey was held down for almost 5 minutes while it spasmed, and it continued to move almost 10 minutes later when the feathers were being violently plucked. Before I knew it, feathers were everywhere and it looked like the turkey I buy at the store: a mound of pimpled flesh, its edible innards on the inside, ready to be seasoned, stuffed and roasted. All of a sudden, it resembled the impersonal, familiar carcass I was used to, and while there was some comfort in that, I still felt sad. I was mourning a life I barely knew.

In honesty, it was a mildly disturbing experience, one that I needed to go through to fully appreciate what I eat. I took a life today. I will not become a vegetarian over this, but I now have a deeper gratitude for the animals I eat. And I can only hope that I do this turkey justice and that it will taste amazing tomorrow. Hopefully, my turkey did not die in vain.

RIP Dinner. You were a very good turkey.