Hablemos, Tele

By: Tele Figueroa

Date: July 1st, 2026

 We all know the phrase “running around like a headless chicken.” But at ten years old, I decided it was a stellar idea to turn that metaphor into a literal, biological reality.

My mom was out in the yard, prepping dinner. Wanting to prove I was finally a man, I confidently asked to take over the task. The plan was simple: a swift, precise, and quick pull to dislocate the neck. Clean, humane, and professional.

Instead, I channeled the spirit of a comic book superhero and pulled with the force of a thousand suns.

Pop.

In a split second, the scene shifted from a cozy family Sunday to a Quentin Tarantino film. All it needed was some 1970s funk music playing in the background. There I stood, frozen in place like a statue straight out of Pulp Fiction: the chicken’s head in my left hand, and the rest of its body in my right. I achieved an absolute separation of church and state.

My mom’s face was a mix of sheer shock and the sudden realization that she was raising an accidental executioner. Suffice it to say, I was banned from kitchen duties for the next five years. Tarantino would have been proud; my mother, not so much.