Easter Chronicles
Mid-1990s.
The room was sterile, lacking personality.
The hum of fluorescent lights, university-style desks arranged in a U-shape - the kind with foldable tops, made only for right-handers - a table in the corner with two thermoses of coffee.
The facilitator skillfully managed the overhead projector and the stack of transparency sheets, while the fable of the chicken and the pig - a classic in workshops and corporate training - unfolded in a menacing tone:
“At breakfast, the chicken is involved, because it provides the eggs.
But the pig is committed, because it provides the bacon, which requires a greater sacrifice.”
Silence.
Moments of epiphany and tension, as everyone awaited the final reflection:
“And you: are you involved or committed to your work?”
Projector off, applause, lukewarm coffee, “Congratulations, great training,” “That really reflects how I work,” “Can I give you my business card?”, “Where do you work again?”, more lukewarm coffee.
And one word lingered — silent, threatening, invisible:
Sacrifice.
When I was 7, I got a pet chick.
Dulcineia, the sweetest little thing, followed me everywhere.
She grew up, became a hen, and like clockwork, would wake me at 6 a.m. with her typical clucking, proudly announcing she had laid another egg.
I’d run to the yard and open her coop to collect the warm egg from beneath her.
A beautiful, perfect thing of nature.
And at the time, I didn’t even like eggs.
The Chicken and the Pig is a business fable, of unknown origin, used time and again to separate those “committed to the project” from those who are “just involved.”
Be the bacon - be committed.
Laying eggs? Just involvement. Easy.
Sacrifice.
You have to give your blood, wear the company jersey.
Such corporate mantras, divisive in nature, were passed down through organizations as tools for productivity.
Everything else - everything - became secondary.
But who says laying an egg is easy?
Dulcineia got a boyfriend: Dom Quixote.
The relationship didn’t go well. Dulcineia was being hurt. Domestic violence.
The coop needed an extension to separate the couple.
I really wanted Dulcineia to have babies, so I was given four fertilized eggs from Mr. Manoel’s farm.
The family grew, along with all the chaos of raising six birds in a backyard covered in broken tiles.
Then came the news: the family was moving to “a better place.”
One day, I came home from school and Dulcineia was gone.
It was Easter Eve, and the Easter Bunny was especially generous with the chocolate eggs that year.
This toxic, divisive mentality from the fable breeds a sense of inadequacy, of not belonging.
Talents and skills are overlooked, because ultimately, only the bacon matters.
The individual, with their needs and desires, disappears into the role of “the committed professional.”
When someone defends their individuality and sets healthy boundaries, they’re exiled.
I’m happy to see younger generations breaking free from these chains, the labels, and the heavy burden of "commitment."
I’m glad to see them prioritizing mental and emotional health, seeking a balanced, happy life.
And I hope people from my generation can also free themselves from the mental traps that were laid for us for so long.
Sixteen years after the loss of my beloved hen, my mother confessed on her deathbed that Dulcineia, Dom Quixote, and their four children were our Easter lunch that year at my grandmother’s house.
Easter. Sacrifice.
The hen that became bacon.
