Last week, Leah called me into the main office because a parent had brought fried chicken for the teachers at our school to enjoy. I was pumped. I would gladly work overtime or take a pay cut for fried chicken, so this was really like a dream come true. Apparently the kid’s father worked at the fried chicken joint and wanted to bestow a gift upon us for putting up with his son. I sat down next to Leah and started muchin’ on a drumstick.
“He’s missed a lot of school lately,” Leah said, talking about the student.
“Yeah, I noticed.”
“It is because he had penis cut operation.”
For the sake of comedy, I wish I’d done a double take or started choking on the chicken. In reality, though, I kept right on eating. “Say that again?”
“What is word…” she said, thinking. “When the skin at end of the penis is taken off?”
“Yes, he was circumcised.”
“Isn’t he a bit old for that? How old is he?”
“He’s 12. His parents thought it would be good.”
I nodded, reaching for a breast. “Personally, I’m happy to be circumcised.”
Leah nodded too, using a Kleenex to wipe the grease off her fingers. After that, neither of us talked much.
“Well, this chicken is delicious,” I finally said. “I’m glad that boy was circumcised.”
Leah agreed, and we ate a few more pieces before the next class started.