Does it ever pay to remind yourself of the things that made you unhappy? I owned hamsters as a child. I wanted to name the first one, but the decision was made. Ham. The hamster would be named Ham. I hated the name and never uttered it. I cringed inside when anyone referred to that animal as Ham. I wanted to talk to him, addressing him by his real name. I was unaware until later years that “ham-handed” was a term used to describe an action or entity which is clumsy or graceless. The sound of the word “ham” defines itself to me. More hamsters were procured, but no more names were assigned. I watched one of them eat the spawn. Someone (probably me) unwittingly put the male hamster in the cage with the newborns. I watched as the big hamster ate. Tiny strips of pink flesh chewed in his mouth, which looked like an anus. His eyes closed as he ate one tiny creature after another. I could faintly hear the succulent sounds of chewing. It is a common trauma, I’ve learned. I’ve told the story to many nodding heads and listened to responses of similar experiences from this childhood rite of passage. Bonnier we become as the revulsion turns to common ground.
