Chickens and their Chicks

I reek of poultry. Chicken feathers and feet, blood and guts; chicken baths, chicken chutes, chicken breasts, wings, and legs. The smell (as well as the sights and sounds) of the chicken processing plant that I visited are saturated in my skin and hair. And I can feel the Germans, en route back to Frankfurt this evening, judging the stinky American sitting in the middle of them.

Just get me home, and in a shower, as soon as possible. Please.

***

Last week, I wrapped up my Chicken Team meeting a little early. We were at a stopping point, and I had to go. It was Mary's first dance class, and I wasn't going to miss it.

I had signed Mary up a couple weeks ago; purchased teeny tiny tap and ballet shoes, a leotard and tights; told her how much she would love it all.

'Oh thank you, Mommy,' she said to me, giving me a great big hug.
'You're welcome, honey.' Gush. My cutie.

I arrived at the dance studio last Wednesday, rushing past the other moms in the waiting room to observe my baby through the window. Mary was sitting in a circle with the rest of her classmates, all pink, ponytails, and precious, listening to her teacher recite the rules. Upon her direction to stand up and start to march in place, Mary jumped up and stepped in rhythm with the instructor.

I watched her transition from tap to ballet, discover her rosy reflection in the wall of mirrors, and fall more in love with the performing arts, as I brushed away a couple uncontrollable tears of joy.

Bobby was done though. The fruit snacks were gone and he didn't want to watch Mary anymore. He squirmed out of my arms and commenced a mission of trouble making in the lobby. It was then that I got a closer look at the other Moms and the one that didn't belong. Me. Dressed in business attire, wild 18-month old flailing out of my lap, I was a stark contrast to the other women, dressed in Lululemon, petting the children nuzzled in their arms.  

Whatever. I was here. So were they. We all win.

This week though, I missed Mary's dance class. Instead, I spent the day delayed at O'Hare, then driving from Nashville to Eastern Kentucky, then at dinner with the good people who power a massive poultry processing plant.

I thought of the other moms, likely dressed in their form fitting yoga gear again, ready to greet their ballerinas at the end of class. And I thought about how much I wished I was there. Not just to see Mary spin, twirl and tap, but to prove that working moms could do it all. Be everywhere for everyone all the time.

The next day, I suited up to step into a house of 21,000 17-day old chickens roaming cage free at a family farm deep in the rolling hills of Kentucky. Then I suited up again to tour a chicken processing plant that moves about 1,250,000 birds through its facility every week. During my two hour tour, I probably saw more than 10,000 crated in (all from family farms within five counties of Kentucky) slaughtered, cleaned, butchered, and processed into the little chicken breasts we buy at retail outlets every day.

Along with a whole lot of chickens, I saw hundreds of employees who make this process work every day. Many of them women. Many of them Moms.

Their jobs ranged from shackling and slicing, to pulling and tearing, to assessing and ensuring that everything was done humanely and to USDA standards. They took their work very seriously and they showed nothing but pride in that work. Born and raised in Kentucky, they had accents to prove it. They didn't drink, but were proud of their state's Bourbon heritage. The flair on their cars expressed #IamaChristian and that they were with Trump. A couple with Clinton Kane. Despite our differences, I felt solidarity with them. I shared the determination that I saw on their faces, the reason they worked hard every day; for their kids, for their future.

In this day and age, we all want to know where our food comes from. (And this past week, I got a glimpse into the food industry that most will never see. Kill step included, nothing curbed my appetite for chicken. If anything, it reassured and encouraged it.)

But I think the most important thing we need to understand, is where people come from. The climates, circumstances, and credos that shape their position and purpose. And we need to find ways to connect with them. Because we're in this together and we all just want what's best for our chicks.

Mary and Bobby were glad when I came home. Despite the excitement of Mimi covering dance class last week and Peter being a super Dad, my business travel always takes a toll on them. But I hope some day they realize that in some small way, I made an impact.

And in dance class this week, I'm determined to connect with those other moms.

Lo.