The sun shone affably on Boulder Country Day School as the fumes of well preserved fetal pigs wafted heavily on the dainty breeze. My eighth grade class was spread outside on the grass to avoid stinking up the building, our fetal pigs splayed out on plastic trays. My lab partner, Jason, and I wore latex gloves to protect our hands from the chemicals and from taking on the same stench as the flesh we were carefully dividing and identifying. Still, the odor stalked the members of the class through the entirety of the day, despite our attempts to defend ourselves against it.
Jason and I had not chosen each other as partners, rather we had been leftovers from our determined efforts as separate genders to keep the groups of male and female strictly segregated. Secretly, I had been pleased to be partnered with the lanky, red-haired boy. Our task that week was to simply identify the anatomy of the pig, which, at least internally, proved to be similar to that of humans. I had been relieved to learn that we were not required to write anything down for the exercise; even in those days I avoided every iota of possible extra work. For this particular project my tomboy persona emerged and I was delighted to be carving open the pig, although I restrained my glee due to Jason’s presence.
Jason and I were both reserved with our actions, overly polite and self-aware. We had been in school together for five years, yet puberty had moved us from carefree children to nervous beings who weren’t quite sure how to handle ourselves, especially around each other. Jason turned the page of our lab booklet and his face went scarlet. The top of the next page exclaimed in ominous, bold lettering “Determining the Sex of Your Pig”.
After a few “um”s and “err”s, we picked up our scalpels and found what proved our pig to be male. By that time, my cheeks too had changed to a nice shade of strawberry. Jason poked at some stuff and mumbled “Well, I guess that’s it…” We hastily turned the page, ignoring the rest of the instructions under the obtrusive heading and proceeded to awkwardly prod and name other parts of the pig.
I would like to think that if put in the same situation, I would act with more maturity and composure the second time around. I would like to think that I have grown to be above squirming at something so insignificant. In reality, who knows? Maybe I would only react in exactly the same way. I like to think I grow and change. And I do. But no matter what, there will always still be within me that nervous, embarrassed child that I grew from.
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