Cut Pig

A few months ago I took my Advanced Freshman English class through a WRITING PROMPT MARATHON. We wrote to a prompt a day outside of class, and then graded and discussed them in the class the following day, one a day for the entire week. (I firmly believe that teachers should do the assignments that we create; one can always use more empathy.) I knew that for this to work I would need total buy-in, so I threatened them: no essay equals a trip to the discipline office. This would be fleeting for seventy percent of the student population, but it produced a host of fearful gasps from this crowd.

Day one ushered in, and the students pulled out their essays: Jesus? Yes. Yovanna? Yes. Jennifer? Yes. Edeiba? Yes. Chai? Yes. Chris? No. Gulp. Christopher Vue. Short, awkward, dubious Chris looked up at me with slightly despondent, slightly fearful eyes: "I didn't do it."

I resolved to remain as stoic as possible. I was trying to prove a point, after all. "OK, Chris. You know what that means," I replied.

I bided my time and guided the students through the grading process before I filled out the referral and called the "Batphone" for a hall monitor. The Discipline office felt that it was rather late in the period to pick up a student. No, I thought. I have to have follow through or they'll find out that most of my threats are empty. I looked up and saw the scariest Vice Principal on campus walk by. Jackpot. I knew he'd play along.

"It's fine," I said through the phone, "I see Peterson walking by. I'll just grab him." Terror filled Chris's eyes and radiated throughout the room. I hung up the phone and started walking toward the door. "You'd better have a really good excuse," I said to Chris in a dramatic tone.

Chris squirmed and cleared his throat. "Well, it's just...um...the people came and my dad said cut pig."

I looked at him squarely. "Your dad said cut pig?" I asked, flatly. "Really? You had to cut pig last night?"

"Yes." He wasn't lying.

"Excused," I said. "But you better have it by tomorrow." Chris breathed a massive sigh of relief, and finally, another student entered the tense conversation with "Dude, cut pig. That take like three hour."

---

Yesterday the same class turned in a portfolio project on the novel, _Bless Me, Ultima_. One section of the portfolio was a theme study on coming of age traditions. Here is an excerpt from You's portfolio, unedited:

In the hmong cultural way of coming of age is when the son or boy is cutting pig. Cuttin pig is an important role in the way of hmong cultural way of growing up because it give the family a good name. Cutting pig need to be learn because it is use in marriage to show your mature and not a child anymore. Cutting pig is shown in coming of age because it shows others you're not just some lame kids who don't know how to do anything but a kid who is given respect because of this. This is a major role in the hmong boys way of growing up because it is used basically every year. Another thing in the hmong culture that shows growing up is when a son is ready and is mature enough to learn a ritual saying. This ritual saying is a big part in hmong cultural life because it is used to feed the dead to bring good luck for a new year, and bring back spirits that are lost. This saying can only tell to the son only if he is ready to start a life on his own...as for me, growing up to take my family tradition is difficult because I could barely cut pig.

---
Three days after the cut pig incident in first period, Xi from fifth period wanted to ask me a question. There were two minutes left in class and deep concern in his eyes, so I sat down in the desk next to him. "Sure. What's going on?"

"Never mind," he said, and shifted in his chair. His brow was furrowed.

"Is everything all right?" I asked. The class was looking at us querulously.

"Oh, no, I'll ask you later."

"OK, but now how have me curious," I said lightly.

"Well...it's just...what happens when you see water...and you don't listen...and then something happens. What happens?" He looked at me with desperation, but also with a bit of relief.
I sat there for a moment. "You see water."

"Yes."

"Like, real water?"

"No. It's like in your mind."

"OK, do you see real water in your mind, or is it a symbol for something?"

"It's a symbol," he said, and another student piped in with the Hmong word for it. "It's an emotion," Xi said.

"But not crying or anything, right?"

"Right."

The bell rang. "I'll think about it. Hang in there, Xi."

Over the next few days, I ran an informal survey with Hmong teens and adults, asking them what it means to "see water." Only a few were familiar with the term, and their reactions were strong: "He need to see Shaman right away! Something bad gonna happen to him!"
I caught up with Xi a few days later, and the look on his face was tranquil again. "How are you?" I asked.

"Oh, I'm much better," he said. I talked to my mom when I got home, and she said that if something happens it happens, but I shouldn't worry about it."

"That's good advice," I said. "Does your family go to a Shaman?" I asked. Not all Hmong families see Shamans; some have converted to Christianity or Mormonism. Some do both.

" No," he said. "My dad's old enough to have his own ancestors."

"So, your dad does your ceremonies?"

"Yeah, and I'm learning how to assist him, but it's a lot to memorize."

---